When The Darkness Comes
by girlinshipwreck
Summary: The Doctor is trying to outrun his fate and Vivien is trying to outrun her past. After fleeing a London lost to the dead, the TARDIS crash-lands in a forsaken Atlanta where they discover death is life and civilization has become a myth. It is a world that will fall and Vivien has to fight for her very survival or she will fall with it.
1. Ghost

**Ghost**

In my beginning is my end;

In my end is my beginning.

- T.S. Eliot

I have been here for two weeks, keeping my lonely vigil in a London that shouldn't be, its streets overrun with the dead. I was there in the beginning when death first became life. I witnessed the war waged by U.N.I.T on an enemy that eventually consumed them. I was arrested for opposing Colonel Erisa Magambo's decision to gun down both the living and dead in one last attempt to contain the infection. I seen England fall. Now my days are scarred with death, my nights a torment to be endured. He said he would come back, that he would find me, but I think they will find me first.

* * *

_He is shrouded in shadow but I know it's him; I can tell by the familiar hunch of his shoulders, the way his dark hair flops over his brow. He turns around, straightening his bow-tie before stepping out of the darkness. _

_But I take a step back, for it's him, but not him. His gaze flickers over me, hostile, disinterested, almost disgusted. I retreat even further, only for him to advance forwards. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to._

_I know he's here to take her away but I won't let him, not this time. He holds his hand out, _come with me_, and her fingers break free from mine and I can't move, I can't breathe - all I can do is stand there and watch him lead her away again into the dying light. They fade from me, as always, and I am alone, as always - _

I jolt awake, breath coming in huge gasps, the ridges of my braid digging into my scalp. For a long moment I just lie there, staring up at the swirling patterns on the ceiling, the dream slipping through my fingers like sand. A bow-tie, an outstretched hand... and then it's gone, leaving only a feeling of desolation in its wake instead. Then I jump as dead fingers rattle the doorknob. It's a sound I should be used to now, but I know I never will be.

At first I used to wonder at how they still seemed to be so _human_; I've seen them sitting on park benches and in cars, clutching coffee cups and Barbie dolls, all echoes of a life that's no longer theirs. But now I don't care. In a way, I'm the same as them, no longer quite human yet still clinging to the ghost of who I was. The only difference between us is a beating heart, or I too would be out there, wandering what used to be.

I sit up, thoughts flickering in the direction of the Doctor before my consciousness crushes them down. The door handle continues to twist and turn, but I block it out, for the time being anyways. Food first, then I'll flee. I haven't killed any of them yet, which is a stupid attitude to take during the apocalypse, but I just can't. But as each day passes, I become that little bit more detached from the dead; so far I've lost my compassion, my curiosity, and soon I'll stop running and start killing instead.

I pick up my crowbar, weighing its murderous potential in my palm. After the TARDIS evaporated into the ether, the Doctor running off, trying to distract them so I could escape, it was sink or swim time. I tried to keep track of where I was so I could stay close to where the Doctor might be, but the dead quickly drove me out of the area. My only hope was that they would drive him out too, to where I was, but until then, I had to stay alive.

On the second morning I kicked in the door of a garden shed, stealing a crowbar so I would have something to break into houses and defend myself with. And now here I am in a home that's not mine, refusing to face the fact that this is my life now; that I'm more or less on my own and the Doctor's gone. The world I left behind fell into fragments in my absence and there's nothing left to fight for.

* * *

I throw the tin of baked beans aside, no longer caring about the social niceties. I chuck the fork over my shoulder before flinging my hood over my head and snatching up my crowbar. In a few quick strides I'm at the window, pulling the curtains aside. I check for them but the backyard is clear - for now. I quickly fling up the sash and climb out of the window, battering my head off the frame in the process.

Choking down a curse, I creep through the waist-high weeds, past the laundry still hanging out to dry and make for the wall. I hoist myself up, just as I did when I was a child, and sit astride the brick as though on a horse, surveying my surroundings. The streets are empty, rows and rows of houses as far the eye can see, easy pickings for the plucking if the dead weren't moving into the neighbourhood.

For a moment, I surrender myself to the suspicions that stalk my heart, allowing myself to believe that they're here because of me, hunting me like a predator does its prey. I swing my leg over the side of the wall before dropping down onto the pavement, landing like a cat on the concrete. Then I'm running, running as fast as my feet can carry me.

* * *

My lungs are screaming at me to stop, but I can't. At the back of my mind, I think of my old plan to make for the river, tying myself to the Thames and old memories, using the winding water as a compass in the chaos.

I round another corner, running right into rigor mortis at full throttle. I reel back to avoid its stiffly flailing hands, catching a glimpse of a hideous rictus grin as I smash sideways into yet another one of them. But it's too late, I'm caught, captured. My hood falls back as I struggle to break free from their death grip, swinging the crowbar wildly through the air and bringing it down on their skulls, blood and brain tissue exploding like fireworks over me.

As they slump to the ground, I spring forwards, only to falter as I realise I'm surrounded. I whirl around, to head back the way I came, but that's no longer an option. My brain struggles to compute what's happening; one second I was running through empty streets, the next I'm here, hemmed in on all sides.

I'm in some sort of main road, cars lying abandoned in all directions, shop windows blown out. There are bodies on the ground, bodies in the cars. They stagger amongst the fallen, more and more emerging from streets further down, their inhuman keen shattering the silence into splinters -

Then something grabs me from behind – I whip around, bringing up my crowbar again, stabbing it through the eye, faintly disbelieving that I'm actually doing this, killing instead of doing my usual cut and run. As I pull it out, the crowd surges forwards, spurred on by desperate hunger, their sheer mass slamming into me like a train, knocking me down, the crowbar falling through my fingers, clattering to the ground as my body hits concrete.

I roll onto my side, legs and limbs lashing out, trying to drive them off, but there's too many, so many they're blocking out the sunlight. As though from far away, I feel teeth tear at my flesh, pain paralysing me like anaesthesia. I hear somebody screaming, a terrible high-pitched scream, and as I watch the blood drip from their dead lips, I realise with faint surprise that it's me screaming.


	2. Embers

**Embers**

It feels like I'm becoming detached from my body, my soul being wrenched from flesh and sinew. I watch myself being slowly but surely torn apart, my hoodie and jeans gradually becoming reduced to shreds. The air is heavy with the sharp tang of blood and death. Oddly I remember the river, walking along its banks with Jamie, my hand unconsciously cupping the curve of my belly, then sitting in a pub with Jack, weeping I wanted to forget, the terrible expression in his eyes as they met mine, and then my screams are drowned out by the sound of time, of impossible, improbable hope.

The walls of the TARDIS control room start to flicker into view, hexagonal roundels hovering in mid air, before briefly blinking out of existence again, then back into being. The dead fall back before fading. Six coral pillars stand sentinel, surrounding, sheltering. Pavement becomes platform, the green glow of the Time Rotor pulsing over my pale skin. For a moment I'm suspended between two worlds, all of time and space hanging in the balance as I traverse the halls of the dead. Then I crash back into my corpse, the pain no longer numb but electric, vital, my blood baptizing me back into life.

My body convulses, back arching, another scream tearing its way out of my throat. Hands push me down, hands that burn, amber dust scorching a trail through the air, making me choke. His voice is low, ragged, _no, no, no, _and agony piles upon agony, as I realise through the pain that he's dying, just like me, and he'll return, just like me, both of us different yet the same. But this is wrong, it's not meant to be like this, _he's_ not meant to be like this and then I'm back at Trafalgar Square watching U.N.I.T make their last stand, the Doctor saying from between gritted teeth, _this isn't supposed to happen, this was never meant to be._

"Doctor," I whisper, struggling to fight the darkness, "I - I tried to find you..." My voice becomes a void, empty, silent, echoing.

"I know, I know," he whispers back, pushing the hair out of my eyes with a hand that shakes, "but it looks like I beat you to it."

My lips fight to form a smile, but they lose. Dead hands batter the TARDIS doors, and I remember that house I was in, the home that wasn't mine, the doorknob twisting and turning, death on the doorstep, trying to get in. Now I'm dancing cheek to cheek with death, one last waltz, the lights dimming, the music dying.

"Come on, Holmes," he cajoles, voice cracking, "don't die on me, not now, not this time." But his humour misses its mark, and I close my eyes, the pain pulling me under. "No!" the Doctor screams. "No!" His anguish resurrects me, but it's life I'm not sure I want anymore as the agony accelerates through my body again. I look up at his face, faintly wondering at how everything has come full circle; he was there before I was born, and now he's here after I die. Then another wave of pain hits me and I'm falling into darkness again -

- and for one long moment, my gaze crashes into his, and there's grief and anguish in his eyes, but there's more than that; there's madness, insanity even and then his hands are on me, branding my skin, a storm of golden dust engulfing us both. My flesh is on fire, reducing me to dust and I'm screaming, the sound scorching my throat as his touch sears the soul out of me. Death and life battle in my veins, my body their battleground, and still I scream, skeleton writhing in the flames, no phoenix rising from the ashes. All there is torment and fire and damnation, and I damn him, I damn my Doctor for he is my destruction.

* * *

I'm falling, falling, falling. Eternity and embers echo down the years and yet I still fall, flesh consumed by flame. But from death comes life and the pain starts to recede like the tide, leaving bone and blood exposed to the elements, raw and vulnerable. A primeval gasp escapes my throat as my body convulses into existence again before crashing back onto the platform. All is still, all is silent, apart from the sound of the dead trying to get in, but I'm alive, _alive._

My eyelids flicker open, seeing nothing but coral and emerald, the heraldry of time itself. Memories rush through my mind like the river, an old garden shed, a tin of baked beans, empty streets flashing past, feet pounding pavement. Then I'm tumbling further back into the past, climbing down drainpipes, _come with me_, Jamie's hand in mine, his face when I told him I was leaving him for Ben, the caravan surrounded by empty fields, stupid sixteen, the Doctor holding Alice in his arms after she was born, the Doctor standing by her grave, two years later for me but five minutes for him -

I jolt upwards, pushed into the present by the past, and I collapse onto my side, coughing my guts up. Then I crawl across the gridded panelling of the platform, the metal clanging under my hands and knees as I drag my body towards the Time Rotor. The Doctor is half slumped across the controls, his suit singed and torn, but still irrevocably him. I haul myself to my feet, using the console for support, the TARDIS humming threateningly as I do, affronted at the action. "It's alright for you," I say from between gritted teeth, "you're not the one who's just regenerated - sort of, anyways."

But as soon as I say this, the shock hits at what just happened, and my legs give way from underneath me. I just lie there, feeling faint, but also feeling stupid for feeling faint, like a woosy little girl. Then this gives way to indignation, then anger at the Doctor, because this is all his fault, the dying and coming back to life part anyways. I should be grateful but I'm not because I know exactly what the bugger's done to me. His vanity prompted him to gamble on the fact I'm not quite human anymore, channelling his excess regenerative energy into my dying body, using the rest to heal himself; enough to save his life, but not enough to change his face.

With great effort, I try to thump the Doctor's thigh, only to fail miserably, my arm falling uselessly back to my side. Then I sigh heavily, knowing I'm being illogical and unfair. He saved my life at the risk of killing himself in the bargain. And he wasn't meant to change now, I know that, even if he doesn't, or maybe he does, it's hard to tell. We both have knowledge of the future, but I've seen the future in the flesh and it wore a bow-tie. All the future he knows is second-hand, second-told, a prophecy of four knocks, and that's it, that's what he's running from. But as he runs from it, I run towards it, and sooner or later I will have to choose.

I close my eyes for a long moment. "Why did you bring us here?" I whisper to the TARDIS. "And why did you disappear? Why did you abandon us?" The TARDIS rumbles in protest, and I think, in a plea for understanding. But I don't understand, not in the slightest and I still can't believe what just happened, or why it's happening when it shouldn't be happening at all. The Doctor says time is in flux, that nothing's set in stone apart from fixed points in time, and even then, that can change, but this is different, this is wrong.

"Why did you do a runner?" I shout, voice echoing around the cavernous depths of the control room. "And don't try and blame the Hostile Action Displacement System either!"

The TARDIS rumbles again, sounding more frustrated than angry, the vibration making the Doctor slide down the console, before becoming caught by the bicycle pump. "It's HADS," the Doctor mumbles, "_HADS._"

"HADS, my arse!" I bellow. "_You_ nearly had it there, pal!"_  
_

"I... I fell or I jumped, I don't know," the Doctor mutters, trying and failing to stand up.

"What do you mean you fell?"

"I jumped, you stupid ape!"

The ape part throws me off course for a second. "God, you've not called me that since I was thirteen," I say, slightly stunned, though I'm not sure why. Maybe it's all that regenerative energy messing with my head, making me a bit loopy.

"No, it was Titanic," the Doctor corrects, blearily waving a finger at me. "I called you a stupid ape on the Titanic because you were trying to mess around with a fixed point in time" -

- "What do you mean you fell?" I say, cutting across him. _But wait, didn't I just say that?_

"What did I just say?" he says scornfully, raising his head. "I didn't fall, I jumped. Had to. Huge herd of these carcass-cleaners chased me, right to the top of a multi-storey car-park, you know, the really big ones, and it was either jump or be torn into a thousand little pieces. So I jumped, but I... I sort of overestimated my survival rate."

He sort of scrunches up his face at the thought, then his head crashes back down on the controls. "You - you channelled all that regenerative energy into me," I say, voice shaking slightly, "and now I'm all... I feel all weird and wrong and shit."

"Don't swear," the Doctor groans, "and of course you're going to feel like a spoon in a cement mixer." I just gape at him. We've both just come back from the dead and he's talking about cutlery. Then the Doctor looks up, fixing me with a curious, then surprised stare. "Oh, it's you," he says, sounding shocked. "It worked!"


	3. Hybrid

**Hybrid**

I close my eyes, just letting the shock roll over me again. I should be used to this sort of stuff happening - this is what life is like with the Doctor after all; the chaos and the running - but to go from being nearly ripped apart to regenerating is too much even for me to take in.

I hear the Doctor crash onto the grating, then a sort of scuffling sound as he crawls over to where I am. "You're still you," he says from somewhere above me, sounding strangely disappointed.

I open one eye, half annoyed, half alarmed. "Was my face supposed to change or something?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. "Or are you just sick of seeing my ugly mug behind the console every day?"

The Doctor doesn't answer me, choosing instead to stroke his chin thoughtfully. There's a gleam in his eye, a gleam that fills me with foreboding. "I'm really still me?" I demand, starting to panic. "You're not just lying to make me feel better?"

"Am I still me?" the Doctor ponders to himself. "Or am I just an assemblage of atoms in splendid disarray?"

"You're still you, worse luck," I spit, "but we're not talking about you, we're talking about me! Am I still _me_?!"

"What would you do... if I said... you'd turned into Claudia Schiffer?"

"Oh, you'd like that wouldn't you! A nice blonde by your side again - one thing though, stay away from beaches, yeah?" I fire back. "You might just disappear into a parallel universe again, with me running off into the sunset with the human version of you."

The Doctor pales slightly before catching himself. "Your hair is green and you've got a third eye, right smack bang in the middle of your forehead," the Doctor says smartly, "I didn't want to tell you because, welll"- he pauses to tug theatrically at his earlobe - "who wants to be told they've turned into Cyclops?"

I hastily fumble for my braid, before yanking it over my shoulder. It's as black as ebony, and not green in the slightest. But I still check my forehead, just in case, the Doctor watching with great amusement. For someone that just leapt off the top floor of a multi-storey car park, he's in high spirits.

"You're a bastard, you know that?" I say, scowling at him.

But the Doctor chooses to pass over this choice remark. He glances at the TARDIS doors instead, raising an eyebrow at the terrible sound of the dead outside. Then he turns to face me, remarking gaily, perhaps too gaily, "they're dead keen to come in, aren't they?"

I roll my eyes. "Am I going to be okay?" I ask, trying to steer him back to the subject. "I'm not going to sprout another head, am I?"

"No, you'll be fine," the Doctor says, becoming brisk again. "I mean, you seem fine, but there'll be side-effects, disorientation, some... some aches and pains here and there." He contemplates me for a long moment, thoughtful. "I didn't think it would work, but you must be less human than I thought..." Then his face crumples as he suddenly breaks down into terrible sobs.

I lie there, stunned. Then, with some difficulty, I haul my way up into a more vertical position, more or less using the Doctor as a ladder. With even more difficulty, I wrap my arms around him, but it's like trying to hold onto a bucking bronco, because he keeps twisting and turning in all directions, trying to throw me off. "Hey!" I cry as everything goes sideways. "It's not your fault I'm not quite human anymore, alright?! You didn't do this to me, it was - it was them, the Olympians, not you. It's - it's just lucky that they regenerate as well, or I'd be dog food right now."

The Doctor snorts in derision, before mumbling something almost incomprehensible. "Eh?" I ask, confused.

"I said, I've probably done more damage than good," the Doctor says reluctantly, falling still.

There's a brief silence. "What do you mean, damage?" I then say, letting go of him, feeling the world starting to tilt upside down at his words.

"You're an artificial hybrid of human and alien," the Doctor explains, voice cracking, "and while there's some advantages to being so, such as having stronger bones, a higher resistance to the common cold and all that... it's not who you are, not really, you're something you're not, and there's going to be consequences isn't there, consequences such as being able to carry a child to full-term, a child that's of two worlds - we've spoken about this before Vivien, don't make me go into it again" -

"Do I look like I want to talk about losing the baby?" I say from between gritted teeth. But as I say this, his face goes funny, like he's dying to say something else, but he knows he shouldn't, and when I look into his eyes, I see secrets, dark secrets, secrets I don't want to know. I hastily avert my gaze, and he does the same.

"What I'm saying is, you conceived and carried Alice to full-term, but that was _before_," the Doctor then says with some difficulty, "but when you fell pregnant again, that was _after_. Jamie is human and you're not quite human, so your body ended up rejecting the foetus, because your system had been altered, warped, re-designing you to be the vessel of a creature that would rip you from the inside out. It - it - your body can't sustain a baby, Vivien, it can't cope with the pressures of a normal, straightforward pregnancy, and - and I don't know what else will go wrong with you further down the line, we'll just need to deal with that as it happens but what I just did... the Olympians did a hack job on you right, but me? All that regenerative energy burning through you? God knows what that's done!"

"I was bitten," I say slowly, thoughts far away from what he's talking about, "so am I still human enough to die and turn, or alien enough to be reborn, since the Olympians regenerate like you? I mean, was it necessary for you to even do that, to channel all that regeneration energy into me, when I might have regenerated anyways?"

"The Olympians regenerate, right?" the Doctor says from between gritted teeth this time. "They heal themselves, even if they don't change their faces. The only time they don't regenerate is when the Olympian female reproduces, because she just dies, end of, so when their civilization was destroyed in the Time War, and their people became scattered across the stars, the males outnumbering the females, with their population rapidly dwindling with every pregnancy; that's when Earth came in, a potential breeding ground, and you were the lab rat they experimented on. They rewrote your DNA so it was similar enough to an Olympian's, but not enough to make you like one of them, with the power to regenerate" -

- "But if I'm not Olympian enough - if I don't have that ability to regenerate, without that kind of system or whatever in place, why I did I survive what you just did?"

"Maybe... maybe there was just enough Olympian in you to sustain the strain of regenerative energy, but not enough to let you regenerate at your own accord," the Doctor says, starting to get angry, "and what I just did has probably destroyed that part of you, so if I did it again, I would just end up killing you, because your body wouldn't be able to cope with the stress of it. And if you got bitten again... I... I think you would just die, and then you would turn, because the infection would seek out your humanity, what's left of it anyways, and corrupt it."

"The Olympians changed me, but now you've changed me even further," I say, "so does that make me some sort of human-Time Lord hybrid or something? You burned out their whole regeneration thing in me, but you might have incinerated their handiwork altogether, replacing it with your own."

The Doctor's face blanches. "I - I - what I did, it burned out the infection," he protests, "and what the Olympians did, allowed me to do that, to heal your injuries, to - to" -

"Regeneration rewrites the whole body, it makes it new again!" I cry, tears welling up in my eyes. "So that's what's happened, you've rewritten me!"

"You're... you're still you," the Doctor says, trying to keep calm, "I've not turned you into some sort of Time Lord tragedy - if you die, you won't regenerate, your face won't change or anything, you'll - you'll just die - and - and you don't have two hearts, you - you're still you"-

- "But you don't really know, do you?" I say, looking him straight in the eye. "You don't know what I am anymore."

"You're alive," he says quietly, "and that's all that matters."


	4. Cicatrix

**Cicatrix**

There's a long silence, the Doctor staring down at his red Converses, me at my blood splattered trainers, both of us refusing to look at the other. The dead continue their assault on the doors, the sound drumming into my skull, making it pound.

"What's with the world being overrun by the dead?" I snap, finally looking at him. "You said this wasn't meant to happen."

He doesn't look at me in return, just sort of vaguely shaking his head instead. "It's - it's not," he admits, "it's - it's wrong, in every possible way, on every single level."

"But you must have seen this type of thing before," I say, frowning, "I mean, that's like your modus operandi, absolute total bedlam, yeah? Like, say for example, we're heading for the Moulin Rouge, except we end up in Middle-earth instead, and before you know it, we're up to our ears in Orcs, and you've got Gandalf by your side, Aragorn on the other, and they've got their staffs and swords out, you've waving your sonic, and it's all epic and shit" -

"Middle-earth doesn't exist, Vivien!" the Doctor explodes. "You've been reading too much Tolkien!"

"I don't read books, remember? Books are for nerds!"

"No, books are for clever people, not school drop-outs."

"I had to drop out of school! I was pregnant!" I spit.

"So? You could have still tried to educate yourself."

"You try educating yourself when you're trying to bring up a baby in a broken down caravan in the middle of nowhere!"

"It was your boyfriend's uncle's farm; that's hardly the middle of nowhere!"

"Oh yeah, sorry, I forgot, you don't do domesticity," I drawl, "domestics are for the apes – no wait, you can't call me an ape anymore, since I'm not human now."

The Doctor fixes me with a cold stare. "You're no longer _quite_ human."

"Same difference though, isn't it, I'm less human, more alien, maybe even Time Lord?" I say, pushing the point again.

The Doctor snorts again, covering up his discomfort. "I think I prefer being the last Time Lord in existence, thank you very much."

"Good thing you've got all your precious books for company then, super Space-Nerd," I fire back. "Or you'd be a very lonely bi-ped."

"Maybe _you _should open a book now and again," the Doctor says coldly, "then you might find yourself less inclined to indulge in childish name-calling since your mind will be so elevated" -

- "Whatever," I say, cutting across him, "try changing a nappy now and again. It might not elevate the mind, but it certainly does the nostrils."

The Doctor just looks at me almost pityingly, shaking his head. "You should have tried to better yourself and your situation, Vivien," the Doctor says seriously. "After she died, you could have... you could have studied part-time or something, made something of your future" -

- "My daughter dies and you expect me to go and enrol in a college course?" I explode, unable to believe what he's saying. "She - she was my future, Doctor, I had - I had nothing else since you were so intent on leaving me behind all the time. When she died, she took everything with her, _everything_."

My eyes burn into his and he looks away again. Then the Doctor hauls himself to his feet, using the console as support, but as he does, he doubles up, a terrible cry of pain escaping his lips. "Bloody hell!" I bellow, staggering to my own feet. "Are you alright?"

"Of course I'm not alright!" the Doctor snaps, still hunched over as I stumble towards him. "I've just jumped off the top of a multi-storey car-park!"

I slump down into the jump seat, feeling none too hot myself. Then I cast my mind back to the TARDIS disappearing as she did. "How did you find the TARDIS?" I ask, massaging my temples with the tips of my fingers.

"I didn't," he mutters. "She found me. Just appeared out of nowhere" -

- "As she does" -

- "And then she took me to find you," he finishes abruptly. "I would have done it myself, but she insisted."

"So she took off at her own volition, and then returned the same way?" I say, frowning.

The Doctor shrugs his shoulders, before half straightening up. "She does have a mind of her own, you know," he says sternly, "she's not just a pretty face."

"Boxes don't have faces."

The Doctor just scowls at me. "So why did she leave then?" I say hastily, trying to avoid another showdown.

"She'll sometimes take off if she feels under threat, so I guess that's what she did this time," the Doctor shrugs again, scowl fading into weariness. "All that counts is that she came back." He pats the console fondly, the TARDIS humming under his hand in return greeting. But I'm unconvinced by his argument. Then I sigh heavily, slumping further into the jump seat, the Doctor shooting me a worried look.

"You alright?" he asks, echoing my earlier words.

I shrug my shoulders, echoing his earlier gesture.

"You should go to the Wardrobe Room and get yourself some new clothes," the Doctor then says, gesturing to the rags I've got on, "you're in a bit of a state."

"Understatement of the year," I mumble before peeling off my hoodie or what's left of it anyways. I picked it up in a flat, some grotty bachelor pad, but it was raining and I needed something to shield me from the elements. But now it's useless, reduced to shreds of navy blue, the fabric splattered with blood and God knows what else.

My off-the-shoulder jumper with Mickey Mouse's face emblazoned on the front, scored from an abandoned Disney store, looks like it's been through the shredder, and so does the grey vest top underneath, but what annoys me most is my jeans, now resplendent with rips.

This is irritating because every pair of jeans I attempted to loot were for people with short legs, not long like mine. I got lucky in Primark but I only managed to pick up the one pair before having to do a runner, and now they're wrecked.

"You're stinking, by the way," the Doctor says, tugging at my greasy braid, interrupting my contemplation of my clothes.

"Make the obvious obvious, why don't you?" I growl, jerking my head away from him.

He just laughs before moving round the console, clinging to its edge for support. I watch him for a few moments, just glad to have him back, even when he's pissing me off. "What's the plan then?" I then ask quietly, rubbing my neck. The skin feels all raw and raised from where it's healed over. Curious, I push up the torn sleeve of my jumper to see what my flesh looks like in the aftermath of regenerating, only to recoil slightly at the sight. It's lobster red, with a curious shine to it, the scars crude and ugly. Maybe they'll fade in time, hopefully with the memories of their origins as well.

''Cicatrices," the Doctor says, making me jump. "Marks left by the healing of injured tissue."

"What's the plan?" I repeat, passing over his remark.

The Doctor narrows his eyes at me, and I just narrow mine in return. "We save the world," he says finally, with an edge to his voice. But just as he says this, the control room plunges into darkness, and then I'm being flung forwards, the Doctor hollering "hold on!" as the Time Rotor explodes into life, the TARDIS trembling as she tumbles through time.


	5. Adrift

**Adrift**

I'm wedged somewhere between the console and the jump seat, the metal grilles shaking under me. I throw my arms over my head as sparks shoot through the air, the Doctor diving out of the way. The TARDIS continues to freefall, and we're falling with her, hurtling through time and space at the speed of light.

Then we hit solid ground, the _thunk_ juddering through me from top to toe. There's another minor explosion somewhere above my head, then silence, followed swiftly by further darkness, blackness broken only by the dim glow of the now still Time Rotor.

"Doctor," I say shakily, violating the eerie quiet with my voice, "did we just de-materialize then fall out of the sky?"

"I - I think so," he says just as shakily, emerging from the other side of the console.

"Is that normal?"

"When is it ever normal in here?"

I try to stand up but find myself unable to. So I just remain rooted to the spot, becoming part of the platform. "I mean, usually we de-materialize then re-materialize, not de-materialize then commit suicide," I explain, trying to keep calm.

The Doctor looks down at the controls, face frowning. Then he runs a hand tenderly over the console, eyes worried, before pulling the monitor towards him. He tries to switch it on, but it remains absolutely irresolutely blank.

With a growl of frustration, he slams the side of the screen with the palm of his hand, trying to jolt it into life, but again, nothing. I look around apprehensively, afraid of what whimsy the TARDIS might get into her head next, and then I wonder if it's not whimsy, but something else altogether.

"Do... do you think she's sick?" I then ask hesitantly, "that this world is making her ill, and that's why she took off first time round, because she was trying to protect herself?"

The Doctor shoves the monitor away from him, before turning around to face me, his face grey in the gloom. "Maybe coming back for us has done something to her," I continue, panic rising in me, "maybe this is all our fault" -

- "What happened before we ended up in London?" the Doctor says, cutting across me. "Where did we go? What did we do?"

I just stare at him gormlessly for a moment before my brain clicks into gear again. "Um," I say stupidly, remembering our forays into the ridiculous and dangerous, "we... we went to 1935 and had an ice-cream in Brighton, then we stopped civil war breaking out District 67 in the Jun Nebula, before going to Russia 55 and buying some furs for our trip to Lapland, where we got kidnapped by these elves who turned out to be aliens; then there was Cavios, where they made us King and Queen" - I sort of cringe at the memory - "because you saved that minister from choking to death on a peanut, then we went to that fair in Somerset where we ate candyfloss and a kid ran into me and you insulted that strong-man, then we were supposed to hit Piscis Austrinus but we ended up in London instead, and then here... wherever here is," I finish doubtfully.

The Doctor just nods, completely confusing me. But before I can say anything, the Time Rotor bursts into life again, the platform rumbling under my hands, the metal grilles becoming tarmac then metal grilles again –

I look up at the Doctor, my eyes widening with shock at the sight of him flickering in and out of existence, his horrified face fading in and out of focus like an old film. He throws himself down beside me, grabbing my shoulders, desperately trying to hold on, only to finally let go as the TARDIS leaves me behind.

* * *

I just sit there, stunned. Hot sunlight beats down on my bare head. Everything is unnaturally still and silent, the air heavy with death. I stagger to my feet, limbs feeling like liquid_. _Shielding my eyes with my hand against the glare of the sun, I look up at the ruined facade of the building before me for lack of anything better to my vision blurs with tears, blinding, incapacitating.

I force myself to focus, taking time and space into consideration. I don't know what year I'm in, but it could be the 1970s or onwards, judging by the dated architecture. I take a step back so I can get a better look, only to slip, arms flailing wildly as I fall down. I lie there, oddly cushioned by whatever I've landed on, breath coming in harsh short bursts. I don't know how much more I can take of this. Then I roll onto my side, only to come face to face with the remnants of a soldier's head, the top of his skull blown off, blood and brains splattering the shoulders of his military fatigues.

All of time seems to slow down, then I glance at the ground, almost puking at the sight of guts and gore splattered across the asphalt. I get to my feet, stomach turning. Then I turn around, heart freezing in my chest. I'm caught up in some crazy cavalcade; cars, military trucks, army jeeps, ambulances, even a fire engine, all just abandoned. One ambulance has its back doors half open, the metal stained with crimson.

But worst of all is the rows and rows of bodies wrapped in white sheets, blood staining the fabric like sunbursts. Some bodies aren't wrapped up at all, others not wrapped up enough, their heads poking out of the top, bare feet exposed. I'm surrounded by the dead on all sides. No matter what direction I turn, they're there. The ones that aren't wrapped up hold my horrified fascination captive the most, the sight of their hospital gowns and stethoscopes, jeans and suits, reminding me all too well of a world now gone.

Then my gaze falls upon a small girl, her long fair hair matted with blood. For a moment it's Alice lying there and something inside me breaks. I careen away from the bodies, the overwhelming stench and heat nearly making me throw up, the relentless buzzing of flies feeding off flesh drilling into my skull.

I lurch along the rows, clamping my hand over my mouth, tears streaming down my face. Then I stumble to a halt in front of what was a woman, her face rotting, rendering her features beyond recognition, blood encrusting her caramel coloured hair. The right hand side of her cranium is missing, exposing what's left of her brain, and that's when I finally throw up, hurling all over the tarmac.

As my stomach heaves, the smell of vomit and decomposing flesh making me gag all over again, I collapse down onto the ground, head spinning. The heat is becoming unbearable, sweat dripping down the back of my neck, soaking my underarms. I slump against the side of a garish yellow car, the full enormity of the situation finally hitting me. I'm lost, like _proper_ lost. I don't know where I am or what year I'm in. I have no food, no water, and no weapon. A fresh tear rolls down my face, then another, and another, and I bury my face in my hands, trying to muffle my sobs in case they hear.

I remain like that for a while, ears straining for the scraping sound of temporal engines, the rest of me on high alert for carcass-cleaners. Then I try to force myself to get a grip. The Doctor will come back for me. He always does. He always finds me like I always find him. And if he doesn't, the TARDIS will. However, I'm not too convinced by this thought, especially since she left me behind in this shit-hole in the first place, but I don't have anything else to hold onto, so I dismiss the doubts and form a plan.

I'll snoop around, score some supplies and stay alive until the Doctor shows up again. It all sounds good in my head, but again, the doubts return, so I stand up, figuring the first step is always the hardest to make, and the sooner it's taken, the better. But as I glance up at the building before me, a flash of movement catches my eye. I take a step back, startled. Looking out of one of the windows on the top floor is a little girl, her small face framed by long dark hair.

Something about her cuts through the shock, catching at my heart instead. As my gaze crashes into hers, it feels like my soul is being ripped apart and rebuilt all at once. There is chaos and logic, the warring emotions within me bridging the distance between us, drawing and dividing us together and apart.

Then a snarl rents the air, breaking the connection. They are here. And when I look up at the window again, she is gone.


	6. Traverse

**Traverse**

I whirl around, my braid whipping the side of my face like a lash. Then there's a second snarl, but this one's different, more guttural. Then two of them stagger into view on the not so far horizon, the deep blue sky forming a dramatic backdrop, life framing death. They've probably been attracted by the sound of the TARDIS, only to then pick up on my scent.

Their presence only serves to emphasize the precariousness of my situation, so I move, pulling the neckline of my jumper over my nose before heading round the side of the hospital in the hope that's where the entrance is.

As I stumble through the wreckage of civilization, my mind wanders between weapons and the little girl I seen at the window. I think back to the soldier I landed on, wondering if it would be worth it to go back and see if he had anything I could use. _Maybe I just imagined her. _But the most he would have is a gun, and I don't know one end of a gun from the other, so it's best I just stick to the mundane, crowbars and stuff. _Why would a little girl be hanging around a hospital? _At least they won't blow my hand off, and they're silent as well. _But maybe she's a survivor, like me, and she's scavenging for supplies. _The less noise, the better. _She shouldn't be out here on her own... _

I creep through the debris and dead, hiding behind vehicles, second guessing every step I take. Out here, you can't run or draw attention to yourself. If you run from them, it sparks a hunt, a chase, but sometimes you have no other option to run. I suppose it doesn't matter since we all wind up dead in the end, no matter how far we run. I glance up the building again, flinching at how parts of it have caved in, the brickwork blackened with smoke, with wires exposed and windows blown out. It's a bloody death-trap. Maybe I'm better off taking my chances out here.

But then I think of the little girl and it hardens my resolve. I round a corner, only to have my resolve suddenly tested. There's a fire-exit door lying open, a way in. I swallow hard at the sight of it. Maybe somebody escaping the hospital left it open. Maybe they're still out there, surviving. Maybe they got out, and maybe I will too. But first of all, I have to go in.

Taking a deep breath, trying not to think about what could still be inside, I head towards the metal steps leading up to the fire exit. Maybe this is how the little girl got in too. Maybe she's real after all. There's the canteen, medical supplies. Anyone who wanted to live would try their hand here. I hastily bypass the three deep pile of bodies dumped unceremoniously next to the rubbish bins, and jog up the steps, kicking aside the autumn leaves as I go, the metal clanging under my feet. Then I'm there, peering into the darkness, hesitating again.

I could really use a fag right now or even a stiff drink. I think the occasion is calling for it.

I either go in, or I take my chances out here, waiting for the Doctor to turn up. And while I'm doing that, they'll descend, and I'll be back to square one. All I can do is keep moving forwards, and keep believing no matter how far I head out, he'll find me. So I force myself to step into the darkness, letting go of the neckline of my jumper, panic bubbling up in my chest as I do so.

With trembling hands, I close the door, cutting off the light. Now nothing can creep up on me from behind... but it's what might be in front of me that I have to worry about. At this thought, the panic boils over and I suddenly just bolt, before smacking my forehead off a wall, nearly knocking myself out. Clutching my head like a moron, I turn wildly in all directions, my breath suddenly very loud in the darkness, the sound reaching inhuman proportions as it echoes around the walls. Then I crash into a railing, my foot connecting with a step. I stumble forwards before catching myself. I'm in a stairwell; I'm in an effing stairwell.

I force myself to move forwards, trying not to imagine what might be waiting for me at the top of the stairs, my hand fumbling for the rail again. I take one step at a time, trying to be careful, trying to keep calm, but when my foot hits flat ground instead of another step, I stagger and trip like a fool, almost falling onto my face again. I let go of the railing for a moment, trying to work out where I am, whether I'm on some sort of landing or if I've reached the top. I start blundering about, colliding with what seems to be a never-ending series of walls, until I find where the railing starts again. I cling desperately to it, like it's a lost friend.

Then my foot finds the next step, and I'm moving upwards again, tripping and stumbling, holding onto that handrail for dear life. But the darkness is disorientating, the silence overwhelming, and I have to clench my teeth or I'll end up collapsing and crying like a baby again. I keep thinking something is going to grab my hand or my foot, the fear slowing me down, making me move at a snail's pace, even though I want to run, to just get the hell out of here. But if I do that, I'll end up breaking my neck. It feels like I'll be climbing these stairs forever, feeling the world drop away from me with every step I take.

Then I hit flat ground again, but this time I'm prepared. I just keep going forwards, hands outstretched, searching for the railing or a door handle. Then I spectacularly collide with wood. I sort of reel back, then forwards, before turning sideways and slumping against the door, hand fumbling wildly for the door handle. But I can't find it, my search becoming more frantic with every passing second. I end up battering my hand off the handle, but I pass over the pain, my trembling fingers desperately turning it. The door clicks as I pull it open, light flooding the stairwell, blinding me. I throw myself through the doorway, panting heavily, before collapsing against a wall, shielding my eyes with my arm, trying to calm myself down.

After a few minutes of hyperventilating, I then dare to lower my arm, the light blinding me all over again. Blinking like a maniac, I manage to see I'm in a corridor, an abandoned wheelchair lying on its side by some lift doors further down. The sight of it makes my stomach turn, but I steel myself against the sickening sensation. I can't stay here, I have to keep moving.

I force myself to put one foot in front of the other, my mind wandering between memories: the little girl I seen in the window; the Doctor's hand slipping out of mine; of being slowly ripped apart by the mouldering fingers of the dead and being conscious for every agonizing second of it. I stumble down corridor after corridor, turning endless corners into even more endless corridors which are lit in patches or plunged into night in others. It feels like I'm caught between two worlds and I wonder if I died after all and this is my hell.

I keep walking, my surprise at seeing the electricity even working growing with every new twist and turn. Then I realise that the emergency generators must be still sort of on. I search desperately for a canteen but in a hospital of this size, it could be anywhere. My only hope is to find some sort of information point. And still I keep walking, feeling like I'm in some sort of nightmarish maze, and the panic starts to bubble in my chest again as I wonder if I'll be able to find my way out of here.

My footsteps echo through the air, the soles of my trainers squeaking with every step I take. Sweat drips down my spine. The corridors start to merge into one, the floor strewn with rubbish and paper, mingling with broken wall and abandoned medical equipment.

But as I turn another corner, the landscape changes. Bloodstains wave across the doors and walls, having dripped down the cheap plaster, pooling into dark sticky puddles on the ground. Then bullet holes start appearing, forming an erratic dancing pattern over the background of the bland decor. It's like I'm following a sick version of a breadcrumb trail, leading my thoughts to the bodies outside, my stomach starting to turn again.

I remember what happened in London, the living dying with the dead, and I realise this must have happened here too; that Magambo's order for total slaughter went global. And for a moment I'm in two places at once, the past and the present, watching the soldiers round up patients and staff alike, _we're evacuating Madame, everything is going to be fine, the situation is under control, _before suddenly shooting them down like dogs, deaf to their screams, coldly watching the bodies jerk and jolt before crashing to the ground, thinking,_ I'm safe, I'm alive, that's all that counts_; the immortal selfishness of the coward who obeys his superiors without question.

I round another corner, half closing my eyes as I go, not wanting to see anymore; when I emerge into a corridor which is different to all the other corridors I've traversed through. I stumble to a halt, frowning at the way the corridor splits in two, the left hand side stretching into the dark distance, the right hand side turning in an almost curve, the lights flickering on and off, an odd hum permeating the air.

I move forwards, then my heart jumps into my throat. Further down the corridor are the half eaten remains of a young woman. She's dressed in blue tie-dyed rags that may have once been a dress, her middle exposed, almost gone, revealing her ribs. Her arms have been reduced to bone and muscle, but as I edge closer, I see her face is almost intact, her delicate features framed by fair hair pulled back into a messy bun, pale eyes wide and staring, boring into me. Again, there's another abandoned wheelchair lying nearby, and I wonder if it belonged to her.

I bury my nose in the crook of my arm as the smell of rotting flesh becomes too much to bear. Then I stumble to a stop in front of the body, half expecting it to spring to life or something, but nothing happens. I kneel down, curiosity getting the better of me. I study the girl's face, heart twisting in my chest. She looks so young, so pathetic and lost...

I straighten up, taking off my jumper, pulling it over my head. I tug down my vest top before studying the Mickey Mouse face on the front of my jumper. It's not ideal, but it's the only thing I've got. There's nobody else to give her some dignity in death.

It's odd though, how the sight of her makes me feel so sad. Maybe it's because she looks so alone. So I stoop down, holding onto my jumper with nervous hands, but the girl's eyes suddenly and slowly blink and I scream like a maniac, leaping backwards like I've been scalded. My back collides with wall, jumper dropping to the floor as the girl's head turns in my direction, almost mechanically.

Then the girl's fingers flex, like she's trying them out for the first time. The movement makes me move; already I can feel her fingertips tearing my flesh. I slide my back along the wall, my eyes staring out of my head as the girl slowly raises her hand, as though reaching for comfort, silently asking me to cross the divide between life and death and bring her home.


	7. Stranger

**Stranger**

There's a door up ahead, and I force myself to focus on it. That's my escape, my way out -

But then the door frame rattles violently, like it's about to come off its hinges. I scream again, throwing my head back as my body jerks against the wall, shock shooting through me. Then I slump downwards, like somebody's cut my strings. Tears blur my eyes, but not enough to blot out the dark outline of a figure standing behind the glass window of the door, its hands raised like Nosferatu.

I can't move, I can't breathe. But then the flickering light throws the figure into relief, and I see that it's a man, a man who is very much alive. I exhale sharply before slumping further down the wall, all life leaving my limbs. The man starts pounding the glass with his fists, desperate, frantic. I hold up my shaking hands to signal it's okay, to stop banging, I've heard him, alright?

He sort of falters, hesitating, before finally resting his palms against the glass, the gesture almost imploring. "Please help me!" he calls, his voice hoarse, half muffled by the door. I stare at him, caught by the harsh antebellum burr of his accent. Has the TARDIS just dumped me in the Deep South? "Please!" he shouts this time, beginning to bang the glass again. "Please help me!" I put my finger to my lips, hastily hushing him with my other hand as I look nervously behind me, expecting more of them to appear in the wake of his racket.

"Please!"

I stagger to my feet, silently cursing the man. Doesn't he know he's going to bring the dead down on us? Then I wonder if he's with the little girl, the father maybe? The thought galvanises me and I half stumble, half rush down the rest of the corridor, bursting through the door, nearly hitting the man, who has to dive out of the way, grabbing his side as he does so.

I quickly shove the door shut behind me, peering through the glass at the girl, half expecting to see her gliding over the ground towards us like a ghost in a story. I shiver despite the heat. But she's just lying there, her hand now stretched in the direction of the door, like she's still trying to reach me. I turn around, pressing my back against the wood, almost hyperventilating again.

Then I look up at the man, my gaze crashing into his. He just stares at me, eyes wide and frightened. They're blue, like mine, except his are smaller, almost sunken, and of a lighter shade, almost grey in colour. His features have a carved quality to them, something of kindness adding character to his face. He has a strong jaw, full red lips, the dark beginnings of a beard covering his lower face and the area between his nose and upper lip. His hair is black, short and slightly curling. He has a beaky nose like mine too, except it's more pronounced in his case.

His skin is pale, with a reddish tint to it, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. He's barely dressed, wearing a blue and white checked, almost tartan-like, hospital gown that hangs off his frame, exposing his hairy chest and the bandage wrapped around his middle, holding a pad of some sort in place over what I take to be a wound. Involuntarily, my hand flies to my collarbone, fingers closing over where they tore me open.

The man observes the gesture, brow furrowing. But still he doesn't say anything, and neither do I. Yet I wonder uneasily about his wound, if they are responsible for it. My gaze then drifts over the rest of him, noting his blue boxer shorts, the loose baggy fabric emphasizing the scrawniness of his thin legs. He has something like a name tag around his wrist, and for some weird reason, he's clutching a box of matches in his hand.

He studies me in turn, brow furrowing even further, and I know he's thinking whether he should trust me or not. For a moment I see what he sees, a tallish girl with long jet black hair bound in a messy braid, skin disfigured by ugly red raised scars, looking like she's been dragged through a hedge backwards. Not exactly somebody to inspire confidence then. He glances at my arm, flinching slightly, and I suddenly wish for my jumper.

"Is - is she okay?" the man says stupidly, pointing at the girl still reaching in vain for me.

"She's dead," I say bluntly, my eyes lingering on my jumper.

"What?" he exclaims, backing away from me, stuffing his box of matches into the waistband of his boxers as though I'm going to steal them. As if. "She's - she's not dead! How can she be dead? She's moving for God's sake! She needs help! Why don't you help her!? You're a nurse, aren't you!?"

"Me? A nurse?!" I snort. "I'm a toilet attendant, pal!"

The man doesn't say anything. He just stands there twisting his hands, looking like a little child, his eyes darting between me and the girl on the floor, like he's watching a tennis match at Wimbledon. I nervously chew my thumb, not sure what I should do next. I wasn't bargaining on this. I thought he would know...

"Where's your daughter?" I ask suddenly.

"_My_ daughter?" the man says in disbelief. "I thought she was your daughter!" But then he frowns again. "She... she can't be your daughter though," he mutters, shaking his head as his gaze travels over me, "you're too young..."

"You've seen her then?" I ask urgently. "Where is she now?"

"What is she, your little sister or something?" he says, as though I haven't spoken.

"She's nothing to do with me, alright?! I don't know her! I thought she was with you!"

My words finally percolate his thick skull. His shoulders slump. "I don't know her either," he then says quietly, "when I called to her, she just ran away."

Something inexplicably breaks inside of me at hearing she's gone. I didn't realise how much I was running on hope. But I block out the pain, even as I don't understand it. "What's... what's with you then?" I stutter, gesturing vaguely to his wound, wanting to know how he got it. "How did you end up in this shit-hole?"

The man's eyes scrunch up, like he's trying not to cry. "I got shot," he says, lower lip trembling. "I was in a coma. Then I woke up. I wandered about the corridors and there was nobody there, nobody except that little girl and she just ran away. Then I heard you scream..."

"And here we are," I say dryly, trying to hide my pain with false poise.

"What... what happened?" the man asks, voice cracking. "Where is everybody? Was there a terrorist attack? Has the hospital been evacuated? Was it too dangerous to move me or something?" He looks at me, eyes pleading, silently asking me to give him an answer I can't give; to tell him everything's alright, happy endings all round.

But I don't know what's happening myself. The TARDIS flung me headfirst into this world and I've been wandering blind ever since. And anyways, I've more or less told him the dead are alive, and he's just more or less denied what was right in front of him, so I don't really know what else to say.

The man inhales sharply, trying to steady himself. Then his gaze falls on the girl again, and I step back when I see her trying and failing to sit up. He just stares through the glass at her, his face contorting in disbelief and terror. Then he turns on me, big-time. "Why don't you help her?" he shouts, tears springing to his eyes as he angrily jabs a finger in her direction. "Why - why are you just standing there, doing - doing nothing, man?!"

I fly at him, clamping my hand over his mouth. "Keep your voice down," I hiss. "There could be more of them walking about in here."

His eyes widen at my words. I remove my hand from his mouth, suddenly feeling very tired. He backs away from me, his hospital gown trailing after him. "You're - you're mad," he says, shaking his head. "How can the _dead_ be _alive?_"

"Look, pal," I retort, getting angry now, "quit the broken record routine, alright? The dead are walking, get over it."

A tear rolls down his face and I'm struck by sudden contrition. "I'm sorry, I really am," I plead, "but you have to believe me. This is really happening. The dead really are walking."

But he just shakes his head again, before turning away from me, his fingers fumbling for the door handle, for escape. I dive forwards, grabbing his wrist, trying to haul him back. He tries to shake me off, but I just hold on even tighter. It's odd, but his presence is making me focus, purpose replacing panic. 'Let go of me!' he screams before shouting for help, help that will never come. I try to clamp my hand over his mouth again, as well as attempting to pull him away from the door, but despite the two of us not exactly being in tip-top condition, he's bigger and stronger and he suddenly breaks free of my grip.

Before I can blink, he's pulling the door open, slipping like a snake through the narrow gap it affords, before slamming the door in my face. I try to turn the handle, to go after him, but he's holding it fast on the other side. So I start pushing the door, trying to shoulder it open. But he just starts doing the same thing, and after a few moments of futile struggle, I slump sideways against the wood, still holding onto the handle, determined to the last. And like me, he still holds onto it as well, staring at me through the glass like I'm insane.

Something inside me snaps, and I suddenly thump the glass with my fist, making him leap back like a startled hare. Then the anger leaves as suddenly as it arrived and I lean my forehead against the door, closing my eyes as I do so, wondering why I'm still here, why I'm even bothering.

If he doesn't want to believe the dead are walking, so be it. I should just cut my losses and go. There's nothing to keep me here. The little girl's gone, the Doctor too, and this geezer is riding a one way ticket to Denial City, so I should just bugger off since I'd be so much better off without him - then I sigh heavily, knowing I won't do any such thing. I've never been able to walk away from a lost cause, and nothing's going to change now.


	8. Dead Inside

**Dead Inside**

Then I hear it, the tell-tale shuffle of them.

I open my eyes, slowly raising my head, not wanting to look behind me. My gaze falls on the man instead. He looks like he's going to piss himself, which only fuels my fear even further. He slowly raises a hand, pointing past my head at whatever it is, his face almost imbecilic with terror. I slowly turn around - everything seems to be slowing down now - and see almost seven feet of dead body, literally Lurch in the flesh.

He's barely clothed, wearing the tartaned tatters of a hospital gown. He's also extraordinarily bald, the dome of his head a putrid puce shade, with ears protruding out from either side in an extraordinary fashion too. Half his face has been torn off, exposing yellowing teeth in a permanently lopsided grimace that makes him look like he's half smiling, half sulking. Then my eyes meet his blue-white ones and he suddenly springs, a terrible cry escaping his cracked lips.

Screaming like a banshee, I dive under his outstretched arms, almost right into the arms of the carcass-cleaner behind him instead. It's a woman with a wild afro, and I scream again, doing a sort of mad twirl away from her. But as I turn, I spin into Lurch and then he's on top of me, teeth snapping at the tip of my ear, rotting hands trying to grab me - then the man shoves the door open, striking the carcass-cleaner in the side, knocking it off-balance.

As it flails comically, the other lunging forwards, the man grabs me by the wrist, hauling me through the narrow gap between door and wall. He slams the door shut, the glass vibrating in its frame. Then we both scream like some unholy choir as the woman slams her face off the still trembling glass, before repeating the action over and over again as the other carcass-cleaner pounds on the wood with his palms.

I just stand there, stricken to my very soul. For one long moment I'm back in London, being torn apart all over again, reliving every rip and ruin. The man lets go of my wrist, backing away from the door as tiny fissures start to appear in the glass. The sight of it breaking brings me back to life. I think it's a very good idea that we get the hell out of here. I holler at the man to run, and as we flee, I glance behind me, wondering how long that door will hold.

The man runs at an odd jerky pace, clutching his middle where it's bandaged, before faltering as he reaches the girl on the ground. I skid to a halt beside him, too scared to go on any further despite the threat behind us. He stares incredulously at her mutilated body as her fingers clutch at the hem of his hospital gown, her mouth opening and shutting in silent hunger.

Then he retreats, tearing his hospital gown out of her grip whilst shaking his head in disbelief, still trying to deny the truth before him. I watch him turn in a half circle, his eyes filling up with tears again, gaze travelling to the ceiling as though asking for divine intervention. He looks like he's going to have a breakdown, like he needs a miracle to save him.

I snatch up my jumper, tying it round my waist. Then I inch round the girl, hissing at him to come on. He runs his hand over his face, taking deep breaths, trying to keep calm. He then edges past the girl as well, glancing back at her over his shoulder as he goes, a fresh tear rolling down his cheek. We head down the rest of the corridor, my mind awhirl with chaos. The only thought that stands out with any sense of lucidity, is my idea to go back the way I came, to somehow lead us out of the hospital and hopefully back to the TARDIS - if she's there, that is - but the man has other ideas.

He stops dead, attention caught by the dark corridor to the left hand side, right in the opposite direction I want us to go in. Then he starts heading towards the darkness, meandering pitifully towards something only he can see. I follow him against my will, hand aching for my lost crowbar. We really need to get out here, regardless of scoring supplies; our lives aren't worth a bottle of water and a tin or two. Unless he's seen something worthwhile, worth the risk, this is a complete waste of time.

We pass through the dark patch, then into flickering darkness, the lights blinking on and off. There's debris and dried blood on the floor, a tea-trolley lying abandoned on its side. Plastic seats for waiting on are lined up against the walls in long empty rows. Parts of the air-conditioning in the ceiling have been pulled out, the units hanging perilously from overhead, panels dangling precariously.

Like before, there are more bullet holes, more puddles of gore pooling on the floor. Doors leading into wards and waiting rooms have been left ajar, as though somebody has just left the vicinity. I keep expecting them to appear in the doorway, my heart stalling in my chest every time. Then we pass through a set of double-doors that are half open, half shut, all askew.

We approach an archway of twisted cables and collapsed ceiling, black coils of metal and wire suspended in midair, forming an arbour of sorts. We duck under the worst parts, eyes riveted on a set of grey fronted double doors further up ahead, the metal handles bound together by a thick chain and padlock, with a short plank of wood wedged through the handles like an extra precaution. There is a sign above the doors declaring 'CAFETERIA' but I feel no exultation at the sight, only dread because written on the doors in black spray painted capital letters is 'DON'T OPEN, DEAD INSIDE.'

The message starts on the left hand door before finishing on the right hand one. As I inch closer, pushing past the man, the dead start banging on the other side of the doors, chains jangling as they try to get out. It's as though they know we're here without even seeing or hearing us. It crosses my mind - not for the first time - that maybe they can smell us. Perhaps a beating heart sends out some sort of scent only they can pick up on. It's something the Doctor would be interested in, but I'm not. As far as I'm concerned, it's just another advantage the dead have up on the living.

As I draw closer, the sound the dead singing fills the air, voices speaking of hunger and torment. The doors open slightly, revealing a sliver of space between them. But the chains choke its progress as the plank of wood jams the gap from widening any further. I creep even closer, horror becoming overcome by fascination, just yet another consequence of travelling with the Doctor. I want to run but at the same time I want to remain, to edge that little bit further into the unknown.

As though sensing my close proximity, they start to bang the wood in earnest, making the chains rattle in protest, their terrible song increasing in volume, sounding almost frustrated in their inability to reach their prey. I can almost feel their anger at failing to get to us. Then just as I foolishly think this, a pale hand tinged with purple slips through the sliver of space, its nails long and manicured, the tips filed into perfect half moons. I watch with transfixed terror as its fingers flex into a clawlike shape, trying to reach for our flesh.

Then another hand appears at the bottom end of the gap, the nails rotting, blackened. One falls off as the hand tries to loosen the chains binding the doors together, fingers fumbling with the links as though trying to find the padlock. All fascination fades away, leaving only a sickening panic. I've seen the dead exhibit signs of human intelligence before, but this takes the biscuit. I'm out of my depth here. This is the Doctor's sphere, not mine.

I back away. Somehow my hand finds the man's hand. As I glance up at him, I see he's cringing in terror, shoulders hunched up to his earlobes, staring with bulging eyes at the fingers creeping through the gap like spiders. Again, denial and fear are written all over his face. And again, he's trying to delude himself into thinking this isn't real; that this is a nightmare he'll wake up from at any moment now.

"This is real," I whisper. "It's not a dream."

He looks down at me, a choked sob escaping his throat. Then he tears his hand out of mine before doing a runner, half hunching over as he disappears around a corner, heading annoyingly in the opposite direction we've just come from. I run after him, hissing, "Please! Please don't do this!", trying in vain to reach him before he reaches a set of double doors further up ahead because God knows what lies behind them.

But despite his incapacitated state, his head-start has given him the advantage, and he reaches them before I do. He throws himself through the doors, hands slapping feebly against the wood as he shoves them open. Then he's staggering away again. I reach the doors as they swing back into position, only managing to stall one door with my hand, the other one striking me in the back, knocking me into the door I'm holding fast so I become caught between them like a bozo.

As I struggle to detach myself from the doors, I see him stumble towards a set of lifts, his breath coming in harsh, uneven rasps. Then he slumps sideways against the wall between the lifts, pressing the lift button with a desperation that nearly breaks my heart. I finally break free as he gives up on the lifts. He feels his way along the wall like a blind person, using his hands to guide himself. Then he reaches a door marked 'FIRE EXIT' in white letters on a red panel, but he doesn't even look at the sign, just pushing the door open with an almost detached air.

I race after him, shoving myself through the door without a second thought. He's just standing there on the landing, looking dazzled by the light streaming in from behind me. Then the door bangs shut, plunging us both into darkness. I press my back against the wood, trying not to panic, to run back out there. They could be in here, not that he seems to care. But as I deliberate what to do next, the sound of my quick panicky breathing matching the man's; there's the hissing of a match being struck, then a small flash of flame.

The man holds his lighted match up like a candle, eyes narrowed against the glare of the orange light. I'm like a moth to the flame and I draw closer. He looks down at me, face unreadable, but he doesn't make any further attempts to run. Then he turns to look at the match again, eyes widening as he studies it, face inching closer and closer to the flame in childish fascination, and I find myself becoming fascinated by his fascination. I watch him watch the flame, tilting my head to the side as I do so.

As I study him studying the light, I start to get slightly uncomfortable as I realise how weird this is getting. But as I think this, he gets too close to the match, the smoke making him cough. He reels away from it, choking, holding it aloft, further away from his face. And like that, my fascination dissipates, turning into annoyance instead. It's just one piddly match for God's sake, not a bonfire.

But then he's scrunching up his eyes, like the glare of the light is hurting them, and before I can stop him, he's staggering forward, nearly falling headfirst down the stairs. He lets out a cry that would wake the dead, (if they weren't up and about already), before performing a spectacular comedy flail, his arms almost propelling him forwards as he waves his hands in a circle through the air, the flame of the match flickering threateningly as he does so.

I lunge at him, grabbing his arm, yanking him back from the edge. But he drops the match in the process. It goes out, plunging us into darkness again. His hand clutches my arm. But we can't stand about in the dark holding each other like we're about to start singing _Ring a Ring o' Roses_. Then to make everything even better than it is already, the man starts to cry, making my heart crack in my chest.

"Hey, it's alright," I cajole, letting go of his arm so I can pat his wrist. But like a scared child, he grabs my hand for reassurance instead. "Have you still got the other matches?" I whisper, trying to recover control of the situation. I can't hang about here being his comfort blanket, I have to get us moving or we'll end up mince-meat, and I'm not keen on repeating that particular experience. He seems to nod, but I can't be sure, since I can't see him. It feels like I'm talking to a ghost. Then he lets go of me before striking another match, the friendly amber light flickering over our faces again.

"Listen to me," I say quickly, "I'm going to get us out of here, okay?" He nods, eyes wide and fearful. "This is the plan, pal," I say, forcing myself to sound forceful and in command, "we keep quiet and we go slowly, one step at a time. No rushing or running or anything and you do exactly what I say if the shit goes down, right?"

He nods again before placing his free hand against the wall, using the brickwork as support as he starts to go down the steps, slowly, falteringly. I cling to the back of his hospital gown, irritated at the lack of stair-rail. It makes no sense to have it in one stair-well, and not the other, but that's the least of my worries just now I suppose.

The man holds the match aloft again, rather like it's the Olympic torch. But every movement he makes hurts him so I start making him take random rests, but it doesn't seem to do him any good. And just as we hit the halfway landing, the match goes out again.

"It's alright," I say quickly as the man lets out a cry of alarm, his whole body tensing up under my fingers, "just light another one, you're doing really well." He does so before edging forwards again, but then he falters, raising the match to the ceiling, our gazes following the path of the flame.

The light illuminates the sign above us, 'EXIT' written in red capital letters. I'm about to roll my eyes and say _duh, _but I see the way the sign seems to give him hope, so I don't. Then we're moving again, except I can barely keep up with the man this time. We hit the bottom step and the match blinks out of life again, but the man doesn't react. In fact he just drops the rest of them, the faint thud of the box hitting the ground breaking the silence.

For a long moment, we're stuck in darkness, but then there's the sound of metal being struck, a slight ching ringing through the air, and then he's pushing down on the safety bar of the fire exit. There's a sharp clang as he does so, then he's opening the door that leads into the outside world, sunlight striking our skin, light that's white tinged with pink, making the air look misty and dreamlike, almost blinding us both as it chases away the darkness.


	9. Hindsight

**Hindsight**

The man shields his eyes with his hand, my arm flying up to my face in defence. The light is absolutely blinding to the extent it's all I can see. It's like it's taken over the world, turning it into another one altogether. The sound of cicadas singing fills the air, reminding me that life goes on regardless of death. We take a few faltering steps forwards, the man now holding his own arms up in front of his face like he's trying to fend off attackers. I huddle behind him, using him as a human shield whilst still clinging to the back of his hospital gown.

We hunch against the wall as we stagger onwards, using it as a support to prop ourselves up with. As we move, I try in vain to see if the TARDIS or the Doctor is about, but the light is too strong to see past. Then I stop dead, making the man jerk to a halt as well. Why did the TARDIS dump me here at this hospital? I stare down at the man's bare feet, seeing my answer. She brought me here on purpose. She_ left _me here on purpose. It's too much of a co-incidence that I would meet this man almost to the minute of him emerging from a long coma. She brought us together, but what for?

"I'm not going to re-populate the earth with you by the way," I snap, scrunching my eyes as I scowl up at the man's dumbstruck face, "just so you know." He doesn't say anything, but I don't suppose he can in the face of such virulent rejection. Then I remember the little girl in the window, and I have another even more sickening thought. What happens if she's our daughter from the future? I thought she was his daughter and he thought she was mine, even if he backtracked on that due to the age thing. But still, she's from the future, age is irrelevant, null, void, John bloody Connor -

I mentally slap some sense back into myself. Of course she's not our daughter from the future; she's just some poor kid caught up in an apocalypse, nothing else. I wish she hadn't run off though. A small child shouldn't be on her own in this kind of world. But maybe we'll come across her again. "Giddy up," I then say absentmindedly to the man, tugging on his hospital gown like it's a pair of reins. He just looks at me like I'm insane, but he turns around all the same, sort of jerking his head like a bee's buzzing about his ear. I sort of stare at him for a moment, confused, before letting it slide.

We start moving again, stumbling down metal steps strewn with dry brittle leaves. As my eyes acclimatise further to the light, I realise with dismay we're in another part of the hospital car park altogether, some sort of loading dock or something, even though the landscape remains relatively unchanged, what with the rows of bodies lying abandoned on the ground amongst the empty vehicles and the blood and the flies and the stench -

I kick a Dumpster in frustration, making the man whirl around again, my hand letting go of his hospital gown. The TARDIS might be on the other side of the hospital where she last was, and I'm here, with this complete utter stranger - then I kick the Dumpster again, making the man leap backwards in fright. I can't go back to where the TARDIS was, since that's where they might be. Two can become twenty in the blink of an eye. I look up at the man, resentment boiling in my heart towards him, but then it fades away in the light of his general patheticness, and I realise it's time to take that first step forwards.

I tell him not to look at the bodies, seeing that he's on the brink of breaking down, his chin trembling, eyes filling with fresh tears. Then I take his hand, leading him through the maze of the dead, their bodies wrapped in greying white sheets, ropes wound round their arms and legs to keep their bloodstained shrouds in place. Some efforts have been made to cover their faces; others have just been left exposed to the elements.

We pass trucks loaded with the dead, bodies piled three deep high like firewood. Bits of brick litter the ground, nearly tripping us up at every turn. I pat the man's wrist again before leading him past the rest of the bodies on the ground, burying my nose into the crook of my arm as I do so, the man copying me. He looks like he's going to throw up, but he also looks disbelieving, almost angry actually, like whatever joke is being played on him has been going on for too long now and he's getting pissed off with it.

For a moment I watch the odd way he moves, frowning slightly at his limping gait. He's still slightly hunched over, his free hand cupped over his bandage like he's trying not to grab it. This really would be a good time for the TARDIS to turn up. But of course she doesn't, so we keep walking until we're passing under an archway and I realise too late we're leaving the hospital altogether. Then I hear them, and I know once and for all staying within the confines of the car park is no longer an option.

* * *

I don't know how far we've walked, but it feels like forever. We left the hospital behind a long time ago, taking one last glance at its blackened sandstone front and windows like broken teeth before forcing myself to face forwards. We travelled through an impromptu army base filled with more bodies and more abandoned vehicles; khaki coloured tents billowing slightly in the faint breeze; Humvees and tanks and helicopters just rusting away into nothing. Then we passed through a park, the greenery giving way to concrete, and here we are, following electricity poles like the Yellow Brick Road. I tried to keep count of them, to put my jumbled mind into some sort of order, but I swiftly gave that up.

But as the landscape changed, so did the man. He started leading the way and I just let him. This is his stomping ground, not mine. All I can do is keep a weather eye out open for them. I'm not fooled one bit by the tranquil silent stillness of our surroundings. I've seen too many empty streets suddenly become swarmed by them. Then the man stumbles but I manage to jerk him back up before he does a spectacular face-plant. He hasn't let go of my hand since we left the hospital but it doesn't feel weird, oddly enough.

I make him sit down on the edge of the sidewalk, wincing at the way he winces when he bends down. His wound's bothering him, even if he hasn't bothered to tell me, maybe thinking it would bother me. But it's clear as the nose on my face that he's in a lot of pain. This trekking shit isn't helping. We need a vehicle, but the ones we passed were of no use since I don't know how to hotwire a car and he doesn't look the type to know either. My forays into criminality have been strictly limited to shoplifting, and I haven't done that in years, though, as of late, I've branched out into looting and housebreaking, but that's about it.

I stare down at the top of his curly head, frown deepening. His bandage needs changed, and somebody has to take a look at his wound as well. We need a doctor, _the _Doctor. And again my mind wanders back to the TARDIS, sending a silent plea into the ether to her to show up _now. _But all there is silence and maybe a bit more silence. No food, no water, no weapons, no nothing, just silence.

As I help the man get to his feet, wedging my shoulder under his armpit, trying not to flinch at the smell, I realise I should be grateful for small mercies. If he can barely handle the idea of the dead walking, how would he wrap his head around a time machine disguised as a police box that's bigger on the inside and flown by a side-burned besuited alien with two hearts who can change his face as soon as the Grim Reaper comes calling?

* * *

We walk slowly along the sidewalk, the electricity poles giving way to middle-class suburbia, the life I never had. My shoulder is still unfortunately wedged under the man's armpit, my arm wrapped carefully around his waist so he can lean on me. Somehow I've turned into a walking stick at the end of the world. It would be good if I was made of wood since it feels like I'm melting.

Through sheer pigheaded determination, I force myself to keep walking, because if I keep walking, he has to keep walking. And since he's leading us somewhere, we have to keep walking so he can lead us there or we might as well just die on the sidewalk here and now. It feels like I'm dying actually. My lips are cracked, my throat red raw with thirst, my limbs returning to their previous liquid state. In fact, it might not be the man who's slowing down, but me.

We can't stop. We have to keep going.

* * *

The sun is now high in the sky, beating relentlessly down on our heads like a drum. I'm going to be sporting some sweet sunburn tomorrow. _If _we make it to tomorrow that is. Our steps are becoming slower and slower to the point we're almost stopping. Our feet are dragging along the ground. In fact, it's the man who is dragging me along now. It's odd how we haven't exchanged a word since we left the hospital car park. I still don't know his name either. He's just 'the man'. But I figure it's best we conserve our strength instead of squandering it on conversation. I also don't want to risk fracturing the fragile trust he's decided to show in me.

We keep passing houses, big empty houses with gardens and garages and driveways and dog kennels. There was a little Wendy House with its little front door open.

I nearly burst into tears at that. Stupid, stupid.

* * *

I don't how much longer I can keep walking. I don't know what's happening to me, but maybe I do. Maybe I don't want to face the consequences of what the Doctor's done to me. I just hope I don't turn into a man or anything. If I do, I'm going to kill the Doctor, and when he's dying, he can just change me back to me again. That's if he finds me first.

We stagger past a bin knocked over onto its side, its innards spilling out onto the sidewalk. On the other side of the road, grey trash cans are overflowing, rubbish strewing the ground. It smells even more awful than we do.

Further up ahead is a fence made of short black wooden posts hammered haphazardly into the ground. Beyond their irregular boundary is a red bike lying on its side amongst the overgrown grass and weeds. When I said we needed a vehicle, that's not what I had in mind - then the man suddenly makes a beeline for that very bike, hauling me along with him in his wake, surprising me with his strength and speed. Then I remember how he saved my ass at the hospital, and I realise that maybe he's not as useless as he seems to be.

But this train of thought leads to other more uncomfortable trains of thought and I suddenly pull myself free of the man, shoving him away from me. He doesn't even react. So I just stand there on the sidewalk, angry and affronted as he stumbles through the weeds towards his precious two-wheeled prize. I don't know this geezer. He could be a serial killer for all I know. And here I am, wandering the streets of God knows where with him, when the TARDIS could be waiting for me back at the hospital, the Doctor hopelessly searching for me.

But then my shoulders slump. If I was so obviously not at the hospital anymore, the Doctor wouldn't hang about; he would be trying to track me down. And as for the man, well, he's just another part of the TARDIS's insane plan for whatever she's planning, I don't know. All I know is that something is terribly wrong - this world is wrong, full stop - and it's affecting her, so she's trying to find some wriggle room or something, so the Doctor can do his thing.

I mean, she knew I was going to die, so she waited until the Doctor jumped off a multi-storey car park that was too high for him to survive, before coming to find him, then me, so he could save me and stop himself regenerating into Mr. Bow-Ties Are Cool before he was meant to. Then she dumped me at the hospital, rigging up a blind date between me and John Doe here. Now I'm hamshackled to him, the two of us trying to abscond from the apocalypse on the back of a bloody bicycle.

There's no use in trying to anticipate the TARDIS's next step because it's just impossible. How can you anticipate the next move of a time machine when she can go backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, back to front, left to right, anywhere and everywhere that ever was? The only advantage I have is hindsight and that is no use to me here.


	10. Ebb

**Ebb**

I watch the man kneel down amongst the weeds, his hand clutching at his middle as he does. Suspicion festers in my heart towards him. I don't care if he's part of the TARDIS's master-plan. I don't know him. I don't know him at all. I'll help him but heaven help him if he turns nasty. I sway slightly on the spot, frowning as he grabs the bike frame and handles, struggling to lift it up.

Then he screams, dropping the bike to the ground. I lunge forwards, moving at a staggering sprint. As soon as I draw level with him, I have to grab his arm for support. It's the mangled remains of a person lying face down amongst the weeds, strands of bloodstained blonde hair clinging to its withered skull, its lower legs ripped off, stumps of sinew and muscle dangling from its torso where they used to be. Its skin looks like dried leather, its back flayed and exposed. The only mercy we have is that it's dead, like properly dead.

I look away for a moment, remembering that even though it's dead, it was once human, a person. Then I push the man back, before kneeling down and lifting the bike up, grunting with the effort. I don't even know why I'm bothering, it's a _bike_ for Chrissake, but I suppose it's better than nothing. Wherever this man is leading us, I don't think we're going to last the journey - I know for a fact I'm not. As though to prove that particular point, my knees suddenly give way and I crash against the man, the bike falling with me. He catches us both, nearly falling over as well in the process.

"What's wrong with you?" the man suddenly asks, startling me. "Are you sick?"

"You finally talking now?" I say in disbelief, pulling myself out of his grip, making him stagger slightly

"Where you a patient at the hospital as well?" he says undeterred, face curious. I wheel the bike away from him, trying to keep a healthy distance between us. Like I said, I don't know this geezer. "If you aren't a nurse or a patient, why were you in the hospital?" he asks, following me. "And what about that little girl? Who was she? Where is she now?"

"What's with the Spanish Inquisition, pal?" I spit, backing further away from him. "You a copper or something?"

It takes a moment for the meaning of my words to cross the culture divide. To him, it sounds like I'm asking if he's a coin or a piece of scrap metal. "Yeah, I'm a cop," the man then says, looking surprised at my guess being correct. I'm surprised too. Holmes by name, Holmes by nature, as the Doctor would say. Deduction is in my veins. No shit Sherlock. Then I silently slap myself into sense again. He's a copper and he's been shot. It all adds up. Unless he's a bank robber. Then my sums are wrong. I silently slap myself again. I'm starting to get a handle on him. This means I'm gaining the upper hand. "You're English," he says, interrupting my thoughts, sounding confused. "Are you a tourist then?"

"Do I look like I'm on holiday to you?"

To my surprise, he suddenly grins, albeit reluctantly and very shakily, but a grin nonetheless. Then he glances down at me, and something about that glance and grin combined breaks through my defences. "Look, like I said, I'm a toilet attendant," I say tiredly, "or I was, I don't know anymore. But I was with this man, my friend, and we got separated. I was cruising the hospital for supplies - you know, food, water, a weapon, anything I could use, when you showed up. That kid, I don't know who she was, so there you go."

He just studies me for a long moment, face inscrutable. Then we both jump as the corpse on the ground lets out a gasp, a disgusting bone crunching squelching noise filling the air as it flips itself over onto its side like a horrible human-sized crab. It turns its ravaged red-eyed face in our direction, and before any of us can react, its hand shoots out from underneath it, its bony fingers grabbing my ankle.

I scream like a banshee for the umpteenth time, completely losing my head. The man's screaming as well, trying to drag me and the bike away from it_, _but like a moron he's dragging it along with us. I try to kick myself free but I'm hopping at the same time, trying to keep up with the man and the bike. We're going round in circles, the man sobbing like a baby, and me not much better. Then I realise my jumper's become entangled with the bike handles, so I'm caught between the bike and the carcass-cleaner, still going round in circles, then the man trips up on the hem of his hospital gown, stumbling sideways in a half circle before falling abruptly onto his backside, the bike landing on top of him with a clatter, taking me down with it.

I land on my front, half lying on the ground, half on the bike. I lie there for a long moment, stunned. Then reality comes rushing back, panic hitting me right in the solar plexus. I hastily stagger to my feet, kicking my legs this way and that way like a can-can dancer, before realising that it no longer has a grip on me. My fall must have broken its hold. I do a final little ridiculous twirl before stumbling to a halt beside the man, who is still sitting amongst the weeds like he's some overgrown gnome or something.

With some difficulty, I haul him to his feet, and then I pick up the bike, wondering all over again why I'm even bothering. It's a bike and a bike's no use to us. We need a goddamn car, not some tricycle or bicycle or whatever. Then I slump forwards, almost landing on my face - again. But the man catches me and the bike - again -and it's like everything is going to repeat itself - again - so I shake him off, leaning against the bike handles for support instead. "What's wrong with you?" the man asks - again - voice shaking as he clings to the back of my vest top, reverting back into a child - again.

"I'm regenerating," I say sarcastically. "Or at least I think I am. My guess is as good as yours."

The man just looks at me as though I'm insane. I just roll my eyes. I'm more concerned about the carcass-cleaner. It's snarling at us - no surprises there - the area around its mouth exposed and torn away, revealing rotting teeth. Chunks have been taken out of its arms, leaving dark patches of dried blood. One hand is clawing the air, fingers curled into pincers, the other hand clutching clumps of grass, using it as a means of propulsion to drag itself over the ground like some ghastly oversized slug.

"Let's go," I say quietly, turning to the man, "there's nothing for us here. Not anymore anyways."

His gaze meets mine, almost resigned. In that one glance he's silently saying he believes now. I nod, accepting his acceptance. He then takes the bike, almost snatching the handlebars out of my hands, before wheeling it away, clearing some distance between us and the carcass-cleaner. I trail behind him, unsure as to what to do next. I know I said let's go, but he's the one leading us, so I guess we've reached deadlock.

To my surprise, he gets on the bike, looking comical as his hospital gown flaps slightly in the breeze. "Get behind me," he orders, surprising me even more. Then surprise becomes annoyance. The idea of him being strong enough to pedal a bike on his own, in his bare feet, never mind with a passenger on the back is completely laughable. But then his gaze meets mine, grey flint on bright blue, and my rebellion crumbles into dust.

He leans forward, half on the saddle, half in the air, and I clamber behind, taking the rest of the seat, tucking my feet up out of the way of the pedals, carefully avoiding his bandage as I wrap my arms around his middle. I haven't done this since I was fourteen when Jamie used to give me backies. I press the side of my face against his shoulder and he sets off, the bike creaking under our combined weight, wobbling from side to side. But the wheels begin to pick up speed and soon we're moving at a much swifter pace, much to my relief.

We pass over grass and sidewalk, under the shade of the trees and the glare of the sun. My thoughts turn with the wheels, mulling over how odd that my life so far has prepared me for this world. Being orphaned taught me to depend on myself because there was nobody else to depend on during the dark years spent being shunted between children's homes and foster parents. Time spent with Jamie was too transient; even when we were together; we were always divided by the Doctor, his erratic presence in my life a secret I had to keep since nobody would understand. Hell, I don't even understand it now, never mind then.

Growing up toughened me up, and being grown-up turned me into a hard-headed, sharp-tongued shrew. I had to be practical; prepared. The shell around my heart hardened until it was like a concrete casing, entombing my emotions, burying them alive. It was only through travelling with the Doctor and widening the narrow horizons of my life that I began to change, thawing fraction by fraction because he was no longer leaving me behind.

But life with the Doctor has a terrible beauty to it and sometimes it's a nightmare to be endured. You have to be strong to survive it, to survive him. And so far I've survived. But I don't know if I'm strong enough to survive this time round. My body is weakening, my will ebbing. I'm slowly but surely being erased from the inside out, soon to be forgotten, discarded, a whole new me sauntering away instead. I will die but live on all at once. I think I would prefer a clean cut death, the death I was meant to have.

I bury my face in the man's shoulder, the cheap synthetic fabric of his hospital gown tickling my cheek. I thought the TARDIS had brought me to the hospital so I could keep him safe; so I could save him. But I think I'm wrong. I think she brought me to the hospital so he could save me from myself, so I won't be alone when the end comes and a new beginning begins.

* * *

The man breathes heavily, wheezing with the effort of keeping up the momentum. He swings the bike towards the sidewalk, making a sharp turn that nearly throws me off. I have to cling on for dear life as he goes down the grass verge, the wheels juddering up and down, making the teeth rattle in our heads. Then we finally hit concrete and the jolting thankfully stops as we speed past rows of silent houses that used to be homes, the sidewalk flying under our feet in a blur of grey.

As we reach a white picket fence slowly being suffocated by the overgrown hedge behind it, the man slows down, enough for me to slide off the saddle and for him to swing his leg over, hopping off before throwing the bike aside. It crashes to the ground, wheels still spinning. Then he's gone, half crawling up some steps that lead to a white garden gate.

He throws it open, the hinges protesting as he passes through it, leaning on the gate for support as he does so. I stand on the sidewalk for a moment to try and steady my shaking legs, looking around, studying the quiet street and its picture perfect houses. This must have been where he lived before the world fell, a sort of pseudo-domestic paradise, all clambakes and cosy cups of tea, the sort of place where nothing bad happened - until now.

The man then starts to half run; half lollop along the path that leads up to the house, the front lawn resembling a small jungle, filled with towering trees, shrubs and weeds. One of the trees has a rope and tyre attached to one of its stout looking branches, creating some sort of makeshift swing, the tyre swinging desultorily in the faint breeze. But as I follow him, I hesitate. This place might be his home but we don't know what we're walking into. The whole house could be heaving with them, a hive of the dead.

As I pass his pretty ratty looking garden shed, I half contemplate kicking the door down in case I can score another crowbar, but rapidly decide against it as my knees tremble threateningly beneath me. Then I see the man disappear through the front door of the house and I stagger after him, cursing him under my breath. As my feet stumble up the porch steps, I hear him shouting _Lori! _but when I go into the hall, I can't see him anywhere.

Then he appears in a doorway, making me jump violently. He hollers _Lori! _again, and I leap forwards, clamping my hand over his mouth. "What did I say about keeping your voice down!?" I hiss, but he just tears himself away from me, running back into the room behind him. I follow him, before realising I'm in a bedroom, his and this Lori's bedroom to be precise, judging by the double bed.

The man wanders over to it, lifting up from the headboard a crumpled red shirt that probably belongs to him. I stare at it, the deep burgundy shade of the fabric reminding me of a dress I once had, the past swirling around me - _come here often?, dark corners and dance floors, the crowd parting like a good-bye, the Doctor standing there, eyebrows raised, bowtie at his throat _- and then I blink, feeling like I've just fallen from a great height. The man drops the red shirt to the floor, before taking off again, doing a recce around the room, his face distorted by terror and grief.

I slowly turn on the spot, studying the room myself with not much interest, fists clenched by my sides. Looting has lost its novelty factor for me now, and there doesn't seem to be much on offer here. Drawers have been hastily pulled out, their contents chucked everywhere. The doors to an antique wardrobe have been left open, exposing rows of empty coat hangers and almost bare shelves. Furniture is lying on its side, a bedside cabinet, a chair. The flowers scattered around the room in various kinds of vases are long dead, filling the air with a rancid decomposing smell.

As the man disappears from view through another doorway opposite, I wrestle with the idea of following him, but my legs have other ideas and I collapse down on the edge of the bed, fighting the urge to curl up into a ball and sleep on it. Shaking my head to clear it, I study my surroundings again, but in much closer detail, even though I'm finding it increasingly hard to concentrate, my mind blurring and blackening, but despite this, it's possible to see there's a sort of cohesion to the chaos.

I make myself stand up so I can snoop around since I'm not going to get anywhere sitting on my arse. There's something wrong with this room and I have to work it out, since the man's too far gone with grief to do so. Involuntarily I remember again the Doctor saying _Holmes by name, Holmes by nature,_ and I force myself to focus, blocking out the pain of the past even as it threatens to engulf me all over again.

First I check the clothes left behind, all men's stuff: t-shirts, jeans, jumpers; all hanging out of drawers and lying on the floor and bed. A search of the walk-in wardrobe in the corner reveals more: shirts, suits, ties and the fancy shiny pointy shoes that I hate on a man. But alongside all this is women's stuff; a white wedding dress in its transparent protective wrapping; various dresses; blouses with sharp edges, softened by cashmere cardigans. I feel the fabric, envying the luxury.

There are rows of impractical looking shoes lined neatly against the wall, cosmetics littering a fancy looking French style dressing table. I rifle through them, out of sheer nosiness than anything else. There's foundation, blushers, lipsticks, mascaras, eye-shadow, anti-ageing creams, moisturiser; a pair of hair straighteners and curling tongs. I avoid looking at my own reflection, not wanting to see the wreck I've become.

Then I pick up a red lipstick, frowning. All that I've found of this Lori is fripperies and frivolities. Practical things like t-shirts or deodorants or boots and trainers are gone. I can't find a pair of her jeans anywhere, and trust me I've looked, especially in light of the state of my own jeans. Going by the dresses and make-up, she's maybe not a jean and t-shirt kind of person, but that's not proof, not to me anyways. Something's wrong, but I just can't put my finger on it.

Driven by desperation, I go through her underwear drawer. All that's there is romantic ethereal numbers, wisps of lace and ribbon that I hastily turn my back on, feeling like a complete pervert. But it still stands there's not one practical piece of underwear in that drawer. Either she never owned any, or she took them with her, since the more I think of it, the more I think she's fled. I sit back down on the edge of the bed, mulling over this thought, unable to think of any alternative. I gaze at the wall opposite, frowning at the faded squares marking where pictures used to hang. I stare at them, the cogs of my mind turning, and then I slap my forehead, cursing my stupidity.

That's what's wrong with the room, it's lacking identity, the personal touches that bring a place to life. Then I slump back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. What does it matter if some photos are missing? It doesn't change the obvious fact this Lori's done a runner. She's probably took her precious photos with her. But just to make sure, I get up and comb the room again, searching for photo albums, wedding scrapbooks, anything to give a face for who the man is searching for. But again, there's nothing. Whoever ransacked this room did so in a way that was fast but well thought out. And whoever they were are long gone.


	11. Kingdom Come

**Kingdom Come**

_"Lori! Carl!" _

I slam the doors of the walk-in wardrobe shut, before leaning my forehead against the wooden patina. He can shout until kingdom come, but nobody's here and nobody's coming back. Not for me, not for him. The Doctor is gone. So are this Lori and Carl. They're all gone. They could be anywhere. They could be dead. All he has left is me, and soon he won't even have that.

As I think this, an inhuman howl echoes through the house, the sound completely paralysing me. It's like somebody's heart has just been ripped out of their chest, making my own stop in sympathy. Then I snap back to life, remembering grey London skies and my own desperate screams. If they're here... I look around, searching for a weapon, finding none.

I stumble out of the bedroom, into the hall, then the kitchen, ransacking the place, but all I find is a useless butter knife which I take regardless of its ineffectiveness. It's better than nothing I suppose, but I might as well spread some margarine while I'm waiting to die. Then I nearly die there and then as another howl hurtles through the house again. My hand tightens around the butter knife. Maybe it's not just the living dead I'm up against, but lycanthropes as well.

I close my eyes for a long moment, trying to steady myself, time crashing together like cymbals in my skull - _twilight by the Thames, a sunset in Thebes, what do you want from me girl? _- and then I open them again, the whiteness of the kitchen walls suddenly blinding me with their brightness. It's happening, I'm changing, dying by inches - _follow the tracks, once upon a time, stardust in my hair_ - and I force myself forwards, staggering into a narrow passage with a white wooden ladder leading to somewhere high above, a loft maybe.

As I blunder on, my attention is caught by an interpretation of the American flag hand painted on a sheet of wood, hung high above a statement sideboard. Maybe the TARDIS has dumped me in the Deep South after all, or somewhere stars and striped anyways. It doesn't matter anyways; wandering through time and space with a wayfarer like the Doctor meant I was always destined to die far from home.

I go past a child's bedroom, averting my gaze away from the Lego scattered across the floor, before lurching into a living room filled with wicker furniture and bamboo bookcases, nearly tripping over in quick succession, a tea-chest being used as a coffee table, a dark green and gold ottoman and a largish carved wooden swan near the ornamental fireguard. There's another inhuman howl, but its source is all too human, as I find the man curled up in a ball on the wooden floorboards, trying to bury himself in the heart of his home.

I kneel down beside him, putting the butter knife down before patting his head awkwardly. He looks up, face mottled, eyes red-rimmed. He looks so pathetic; I lose my uncharacteristic shyness, wrapping my arms around his shoulders like he's a child needing comfort. He buries his face into my arm, keening the names of his lost family, before breaking down and wailing again, a kind of caterwauling that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

It takes all my strength to stay there and endure his pain. I never could withstand my own, trying to flee it through drink or a blur of men who I never knew the names of, which is funny considering the fact I ran away with the Doctor, Mr. No Name himself, who was in the end my final escape from the agony. After a while, the man falls silent. Then he looks up at me, half searching, half disbelieving, before glancing around the room, face helpless, almost blank.

He looks like a little boy who is lost; who wants to go home. But he _is _home. I click my fingers in front of his face, making him blink. But he doesn't snap out of his trance. He stares down at the floorboards like he's never seen them before, gently pressing the palm of his hand against the wood as though checking to make sure it's there, that it exists. Then he raises his head, fixing his gaze on me with almost unseeing eyes. "Is this real?" he asks. "Am I here?"

I nod, tears filling my eyes. He closes his own, pressing the side of his hand into his forehead, like he's trying to resist clawing out the memories tormenting him. Then he suddenly snaps, slapping his brow over and over again, like he's trying to knock himself out. I spring at him, grabbing his hand, stopping him. With a sharp twist of his neck, he glares up at me, sniffing childishly, blue eyes brimming with tears, face angry and upset, almost petulant. His jaw tightens, lips pursing together. Then he yanks his hand out of mine, wrong footing me. But then his face crumples, and he mutters to himself like a litany, _wake up... wake up... wake up... _hands sliding over the floorboards as he slumps forwards, ready to collapse on the ground again.

Again I make to stop him, but he rears back, eyes fearful, looking at me as though I'm going to strike him or something. He looks round the room again, lower lip wobbling before getting to his feet, staggering away from me and out of the living room. I get to my own feet, my treacherous knees threatening to betray me again, but I block it out, stumbling after him, calling to him to come back. But he ignores me, wandering into the hall instead, towards the front door, into danger outside.

I go after him, hesitating on the porch as he drifts down the path. I don't know what to do or where to go. He's lost his mind and I'm losing myself. The TARDIS is lost, the Doctor gone. It's just me and this stranger, the two of us alone in a world where the undead walk the earth. It sounds like the plot of a bad science fiction film but unfortunately it's all too true.

Then to my relief, the man sits down on the steps that lead up from the sidewalk. I stumble down the path towards him, trying to hold myself together. Then I collapse down beside him, body slumping with relief at the prospect of rest. To my surprise, he leans his head against my shoulder. For a long moment, we just sit there, staring blankly at the street opposite, remembering another life. Sunlight filters through the trees, dappling the sidewalk with shadows, birdsong filling the air, making me shiver despite the heat. This is his home, the place where he lives, the pavement he's walked along a million times. But it might as well be an alien planet for all his past is worth now.

* * *

I sit bolt upright, every muscle and nerve on high alert, adrenaline replacing apathy. I'm ready to run, to make like a rabbit down the nearest rabbit-hole. The man raises his head from my shoulder, turning to see what I see.

Somebody is walking down the road; somebody _alive_.

I get to my feet, a smile breaking across my face. It feels like I haven't smiled for centuries. I probably haven't. The person alters direction, changing from walking in a straight line to a sharp angle instead, heading directly to where we are - my smile slips, face falling. Something's wrong. I study the jerky shambling gait, frowning at how it lacks the energy and fluidity that characterizes the movement of the living -

Then the terror hits as I realise it's one of them. Then the terror doubles as I realise that I'm losing myself more than I realised. I can't even recognize them now despite living cheek and jowl with them for weeks. I hastily grab the man's arm, hauling him to his feet, trying to drag him back to the house, but he just shakes me off, annoyed. "What the fuck are you playing at!?" I hiss, trying to grab his arm again. But he just evades me before raising his hand in hesitant greeting to the carcass-cleaner, his face alight with childish hope at seeing what he thinks is another human being.

For a second I can't move, astonishment paralysing me. Then I remember my own stupid smile, my own stupidity. Something snaps inside me, his foolishness reflecting my own, and before I can stop myself, I slap him across the face, hard. He staggers back, shocked. I stagger back myself, as equally shocked. He just looks at me, his hand clutching his cheek, face stunned. Then he backs away from me, tottering down the steps towards the sidewalk instead, calling plaintively to the carcass-cleaner, "Please, sir, can you help me? My family used to live here" -

"Are you insane?" I scream, grabbing his arm again, trying to pull him back. An almost comical struggle ensues, the man being pulled up a step, then me being pulled down one, a pattern that repeats itself over and over again as my head swims, the carcass-cleaner advancing on us. I feel myself starting to fall apart - I'm not going to last much longer -

"Don't worry, I'll save ya lady!" a high piping voice calls out of nowhere. I half turn at the sound, startled. Then there's a flash of red, something swishing through the air - I scream again, lunging forwards - amidst the blur of movement, I see the man's shocked upturned face, then there's a sharp clang, and he goes down, body rolling down the steps, hitting sidewalk.

I just stare in shock at the small boy perched on the step above me. He's wearing a red top riddled with sweat patches, the sleeves flapping past his wrists, his jeans rolled up at the hems, his hands brandishing a metal shovel like it's a sword. He's staring at me with a wide-eyed wonder, a strange mixture of pride and nervousness shining in his big brown eyes. He's obviously pluming himself on his heroics. I sway slightly on the spot, head spinning.

"Are ya alright, lady?" he asks, worried.

I ignore him, checking my nose with tentative fingers. It's still as beaky as ever, so I'm still me. Then I focus on the shovel in the kid's hands. The carcass-cleaner. It's coming. I stagger down the steps, ready to confront it, only to nearly trip over the man on the ground. Oh shit. I forgot about him. I close my eyes, trying to focus. Then I open them. The carcass-cleaner is heading towards us, hunger lending it speed.

"Daddy! Daddy!" the small boy shouts, jumping up and down in frustration. I realise he's probably been forbidden from killing carcass-cleaners, something he obviously disagrees with. Unbidden, I think of the little girl in the window, then her flickering image is shattered as the man speaks, staring at the boy. "Carl," he says weakly, "I've found you." I slump down beside him, eyes blurring as his own blur, like he's looking at a far horizon only he can reach. Blood drips from his nose, his lip, echoing my own blood that dripped from the lips of the dead in London.

Dead.

I glance up. The carcass-cleaner is coming up the sidewalk now. This is it, the end, a bitter, ignominious end. I was nothing before, and I'm nothing now, and I'll be nothing again. I look down at the man's face, at the grief still etched on his features. This is not how he should die, like a piece of garbage on the pavement. Rage burns through my veins, anger stiffening my spine, making my head turn in the direction of the little boy on the steps, all my ire centring on him. I suddenly lunge forwards, grabbing the shovel, trying to pull it out of his hands. But he holds fast to the handle, refusing to let go, the two of us pulling on the shovel like it's a cracker.

"What are ya doin'?" the boy yelps. "I just saved ya!"

"Give me the shovel!" I scream, my whole world becoming reduced to the carcass-cleaner coming towards us.

The boy's eyes meet mine, fear creeping into his face. Then he suddenly lets go of the shovel, and I suddenly shoot backwards, almost landing on my arse. The boy dances up and down on the spot, shouting, "Daddy! Daddy! Help me! She's stealin' ma shovel!" I hastily straighten myself out, before screaming like a banshee and charging at the carcass-cleaner, shovel raised high above my head like the sword of Damocles, adrenalin and anger lending me strength.

Then somebody springs round the side of me, appearing out of nowhere. I falter in midcharge as he runs in front of me, raising his gun and blasting the carcass-cleaner in the head with it. I trip to a stunned halt, the world spinning around me as the gunshot rings throughout the empty street, the carcass-cleaner's brains splattering the sidewalk.


	12. Noctambulist

**Noctambulist**

The man turns away from the fallen corpse, pointing his gun at me instead of it. "Drop the shovel," he orders, his voice deep and melodious. I swiftly drop the shovel, taking a shaky step back from it as it falls to the ground, the clatter half muffled by the grass growing by the sidewalk. "Now put your hands in the air!" I unwillingly put my hands up. Maybe this is how I regenerate, shot like the Seventh Doctor. _Father Octavian. Reluctant assassin. The sainted physician isn't here to help you now. Crimson question mark. Mad Hatter. Run, child!_

The man strides up to me, still aiming his gun at my head. He stoops down, picking up the shovel, tucking it under his arm. "Go into that shed, Duane, an' see if there's some rope or somethin' in there," he calls to his son, jerking his head in the direction of the knackered looking shed I was thinking of tanning earlier. Duane wanders over to it before disappearing inside. I turn my attention back to the gun pointed at my head. If he's going to shoot me, he should do it now, so his son doesn't see the slaughter. But he just looks me up and down like I'm a slice of beef he's thinking of buying, his gaze lingering on my scars, brow furrowing.

"Why are your clothes all torn up like that?" he asks suspiciously.

I shake my head, refusing to commit to an explanation.

"You been bitten?"

I think of London, of lying on the pavement, being torn inside out. 'No," I lie. Despite dying, I still want to live, even if it's just for a moment longer.

"What's with the marks, then? Some of them look like teeth marks to me."

"I was attacked by dogs," I say quickly.

"When?"

"A while ago."

His eyes narrow, obviously not believing me. "Any scratches then, cuts, nicks, anythin' like that?" he snaps.

I shake my head.

"What did you say?"

"I said no!" I bellow, trying not to look at him or his gun.

"I never heard you say jack all," he says contemptuously. Then his head snaps up as Duane comes out of the shed, armed with a coil of manky looking rope. Duane carefully makes his way down the steps, just as carefully stepping over the man on the ground, before suddenly running down the rest of the sidewalk, skidding to a halt as he draws level with us. An exchange happens between father and son, Duane taking the gun, his father taking the coil of rope. And like father like son, Duane trains the gun on me, both hands holding it steady.

"You got any weapons?" the man asks, gaze flickering over me again.

"I had a butter knife," I say bluntly, "but I left it in the house back there."

_"A butter knife?"_

"I had a crowbar, alright, but I lost it," I try to explain, wondering why I'm even bothering.

"An' your mind as well, girl!" the man exclaims. "You can't walk around armed with butter knifes and crowbars; they might be alright for gettin' up close an' personal with one or two, but you get a crowd of them on your tail? You need firepower or a decent blade, a machete or somethin', not the shit you've been carryin'."

I frown slightly, wondering at how he seems almost _worried _about my welfare. It sits at odds with the gun and the coil of rope. _The skies are falling. I knew, I knew right from the beginning. Flash of silver, blood on the grass. _The man pulls a flick-knife out of his jean pocket. My heart jumps up into my throat and I suddenly consider making a run for it, only to stop short at the sight of the man lying on the ground. He's staring up at the sky, his blue-grey eyes dazed and confused. _You're like family. I need you. You betrayed us!_ I can't abandon him; I just can't, even if it costs me my life. My gaze darts nervously between the flick-knife and the gun. If I was mad enough to chance it, I might escape the sharp edge of a knife but it would be stupid to try and outrun a bullet. Duane might be a little boy but he might also be a good shot, I don't know and I don't particularly want to find out.

"You're awfully calm for a girl with a gun bein' pointed at her head," the man says suddenly, eyes narrowing. "You used to this sort of thin' or somethin'?"

I manage a non-commital shrug. I've been held hostage more times than I care to remember, and I've had space guns bigger than Duane pointed at my head, so this is pretty mild compared to what I'm used to. _Sirens. Spitfires. Anderson shelters. Victory rolls and drawn on seams. _The man glares at me, and despite the gun, I just glare back. But even though I might be outwardly calm, inside I'm caught in a storm of panic and frustration and fear. If I regenerate right here and now, this father and son combo will just panic and put me down. If you die during regeneration, that's it, game over. There's no coming back, and if I do, it will be as a carcass-cleaner. And again, it will just be another case of game over. So it's safe to say my options at the moment are either death or some more death.

Swaying slightly on the spot again, I watch as Duane's father cuts a length of rope, casting the rest aside. He stows his knife back in his pocket, before wrapping the rope around my wrists, binding my hands together before me. As he does so, I watch his own hands, almost absentmindedly studying their swift movements. He sees me looking, and I hastily look away, flushing hotly. "You admirin' my manicure, girl?" he says sarcastically, but I don't answer, not wanting to get embroiled in another verbal exchange. He just scoffs derisively before half turning away from me for a moment to mutter something to Duane.

As soon as I see his back's turned, I furtively try in vain to find some wiggle room, but there's none. The only positive is that even though the rope's tightly tied with undoable knots, it isn't cutting off my circulation or biting into my skin. So I quickly give up on the rope, seeing it's a lost cause. At least he's not tied my ankles together. I really don't fancy hopping to my doom. The man then hands over the shovel to Duane, who takes it. He's only got one hand on the gun now, the weapon wavering slightly in mid air.

"Gun," the man prompts, gesturing impatiently to it. Duane reluctantly hands it over. His father then trains the gun on me once more. For a split second, I wonder what the hell is his game plan is. If he was going to kill me, he would have done it by now instead of wasting time cross-examining me and trussing me up like a turkey. Is he going to hold me hostage or keep me captive? Swallowing hard, I think of other more terrible alternatives that could be in store for me, but I hastily block them out. Maybe I'm deluding myself, but I think the worst he's capable of is killing, nothing more, nothing less.

"What the hell's goin' on then, girl?" he asks gruffly, startling me.

"You tell me!" I retort. "Your son came out of nowhere and attacked us with a shovel. That's all I know."

He tilts his head to one side, eyes screwed up in confusion. "You English?" he says, perplexed.

"What, you just realising that now?" I spit. "What's your problem, man? Why don't you just point out I'm white as well while you're at it? None of that shit is relevant is anymore! In fact, it never was!"

The man has the grace to look embarrassed. But he also looks faintly amused as well, much to my bewilderment, the faint curl of his lips making my heart irrationally skip a beat for a second. "What happened, Duane?" he asks his son, but his eyes remain locked with mine with alarming intensity.

"I saw that son of a bitch attackin' that lady," Duane gabbles, "so I saved her!" - he brandishes the shovel like an axe - "I got that son of a bitch! An' I'm gonna get him again! I'm gonna smack him dead!"

"Do that and I'll smack you dead, sunshine!" I say, before I can stop myself.

The man clicks his gun into gear, making me tense up. "Don't you dare threaten my son," he says coldly. "It might be the last thin' you ever do." I just stare at him mutinously. He narrows his eyes for the umpteenth time before looking at Duane. "An' don't you ever swear like that again," he reprimands, "you weren't brought up to talk trash, right?" Duane just nods, looking as mutinous as me.

"You shouldn't be surprised," I suddenly say with false bravado, "the apple obviously doesn't fall far from the tree."

There's a deadly silence. My eyes meet his dark ones, silently daring him to do something. It's a suicidal thing to do, but I can't help it. I've always been pushing the boundaries, never satisfied with bending them, only wanting to break them. Ben, Jamie, the faceless men of midnights long past, they all gave way. I broke them. But this man seems different, tougher, not easily pushed over.

As though to prove my point, he doesn't say or do anything. He just looks at me almost thoughtfully. I tilt my chin defiantly, but my lower lip trembles slightly, much to my silent disgust. Some undefined emotion flickers across his face. Then he lowers his gun, making my legs twitch dangerously as the insane urge to flee fills my thoughts again. "Don't even think about it," the man says, reading my mind like a book. "If I don't get you, the geeks will."

"Geeks?" I say, confused.

"Walkers. Biters. Zombi. Noctambulists. Snake gods. In short, the livin' dead, girl," he snaps. "Where have you been, man? Mars?"

"Once," I admit before I can stop myself, "but that was a long time ago."

"You're certifiable, you know that?" the man says incredulously.

"I'm not," I protest weakly, my head starting to swim again. There seems to be intervals where my mind is crystal clear, and then fog descends, creating confusion, bewilderment, slowing my senses down. The man just shakes his head at me before striding over to where the man is lying on the ground, half on the grass, and half on the concrete. He looks at him as though he's a specimen he'd like to study in greater detail, reminding me of the Doctor for a moment, the memory making my heart fracture my chest. Duane goes over to stand beside his dad, also studying the man, but in a more detached manner.

As I watch them, I realise I don't want the TARDIS coming to my rescue, not now anyways. I've got too much baggage, _deadly baggage_, I think, glancing at the man's gun. God knows what they would do if a police box literally appeared out of thin air. Their brains barely compute the existence of the living dead, so imagine them trying to process a time machine. They would just do the typical human thing and open fire on it. "Is this guy your brother or somethin'?" the man says over his shoulder, gesturing between me and the man on the ground with his gun.

"Would you mind not waving that about, please?!" I snap; agitated in case it goes off. To my relief, he lowers it. "He's not my brother," I then answer quickly, anxious to prolong this unexpected equanimity. "I don't know who he is."

"It's just... the two of you sort of look alike that's all, except you're prettier," he says almost absentmindedly, studying the man again. But then his head snaps up, his gaze becoming riveted on me with that alarming intensity again. "But not that much prettier, mind you," he adds sarcastically, face scornful.

"Well, thanks for the compliment, pal," I fire back.

The man ignores me, turning to his son again. "He say somethin' earlier? I thought I heard him say somethin' when I was comin' up through the back," he says to his son who frowns.

"He called me Carl or somethin'," Duane shrugs.

"That's his son," I say quietly, struggling to stay upright.

"I thought you didn't know this guy," the man says, whirling on me. But before I can frame a retort, he turns on his son. "An' why did you hit him with the shovel, Duane, when you know they don't talk!"

"I thought he was attackin' that lady!" Duane protests. "An' he wasn't talkin' that time, Daddy! He was grabbin' her arm an' stuff; he looked like he was gonna bite her!"

"That's because he was trying to go over and talk to that - that Walker," I say with some difficulty, trying to get to grips with this new definition of the undead. "He was waving hello to it..." My voice trails off at the sight of the man and his son's appalled faces. "He thought it was alive!" I say, trying to defend myself. "And so did I!"

The man just looks at me like I'm mad. "Who are you people?!" he asks in disbelief.

"Does it matter?" I say. "We're alive when the rest of the world is dead. That's all that matters" -

- "Don't get all poetic on me, girl," the man says, cutting me off, "I'd rather you gave me some toilet roll than rhymes." My jaw drops slightly. "Oh come on, haven't you ever tried wipin' your ass with the _National Enquirer?_ It's just shit all round," he says, and I'm not sure if he's joking or not, so I just stick to letting my jaw drop that bit further. He rolls his eyes before turning his attention back to the man on the ground. "Hey mister, what's that bandage for?" he asks, looking down at him.

"What... what?" the other man replies, eyes wide and almost unseeing as he stares up at Duane and his dad.

The man's lips tighten. Then he points his gun downwards, aiming it at the other man's head. "NO!" I scream, stumbling forwards. "He wasn't bitten! He was shot, alright!? He was shot for God's sake, he was shot!"

"What kind of wound?" the man asks, ignoring me.

"I TOLD YOU HE WAS SHOT!"

The man swings the gun in my direction. I shut up, swallowing hard. Then he points the gun downwards again, and I throw myself forwards. The next thing I know, he's sidestepping me, trapping me in a one-armed headlock, my feeble attempts at escape cut short by the gun pressed against my temple. "What kind of wound?" the man repeats, enunciating every word. "Answer me, damn you, or she dies!"

My eyes meet Duane's. He looks absolutely terrified. "Please," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, "he was shot, I _swear_."

His only answer to this is to jam the butt of his gun into the underside of my chin, forcing me to tilt my head up. "You tell me... or I kill the girl," the man says to the other man, sounding like he's breaking point. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to keep calm, to keep it together.

"Daddy," Duane whispers, his wide-eyed gaze travelling from my face to the gun next to my throat, "you're scarin' me." But his father just presses the gun even deeper into my neck, forcing me to raise my head up even further in turn, trying to hopelessly escape the scrape of the metal on my skin. The man on the ground just looks round at us all, face pale and bewildered. Then his body sort of convulses before slumping into stillness, his eyelids fluttering shut, effectively sealing my doom. There's a long silence and I snap, no longer caring about consequences.

"Do it," I say from between gritted teeth, "just get it over and done with."

Then I close my eyes, waiting for the end, for the death I wanted all along, swift and final.


End file.
